The mysterious, silent girl
by vintagepariss
Summary: A man who lives and breathes to solve mystery cases. A doctor who craves and awaits the next thrill. What would happen when both of them are placed into a situation neither of them knows how to control? Read about what would happen if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were forced to protect and house a young women in order to solve a particularly difficult case.
1. Unexpected and unannounced

Disclaimer: BBC SHERLOCK TV SHOW is the property of BBC/MASTERPIECE. The characters of Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No copyright infringement intended. All right to the story belong to VINTAGEPARISS. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any mean without express written permission by the author.

* * *

Sherlock walked up the steps leading to his and John's flat, unable to shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Well, maybe not wrong, but definitely different. Never mind that he had left it no more than twenty minutes ago after a small fight broke out between himself and John. It was rather silly, but John had practically shouted at him to stop pacing the room, and so he had yelled back that he was bored, and needed to find a case, and later announced he was going out to Bart's to find some new human body part to experiment on.

He had barely made it there when he received a text from John informing him that there was a case he might be interested in and to go back to the flat. Which indeed brought him back to said place.

Now standing in the bottom landing of the stairs, he noted that there was something definitely different about the entry to their flat, and yet, he could not correctly deduce what it was. He simply could not tell who was in there, besides John and Lestrade, that part was quite simple really. John was the one to text Sherlock not ten minutes ago to come back to the flat for there was a case he might be interested in, therefore John was still inside.

Then there was Lestrade. John said case, not client, meaning a person did not walk up to their doorstep like they usually do, instead Lestrade himself had brought information. Something big most likely. John had deemed it necessary for him to come back after he practically forced him out, therefore it was big. Then again, he could simply be attempting to get him something to do, which was often the case. But no, that was not it, Lestrade was in there with John. The fact that John had texted meant that Lestrade stayed with John, which also meant it was something that Lestrade either wanted to tell Sherlock himself and keep quiet from the rest of the world for a bit longer than usual or wanted immediate feedback on, which then would prove to be a very easy case and therefore simply boring, and definitely not the effort to come back.

All this lead to the second disparity from most other visits Lestrade would pay them, including the very rare causal ones. There was a third person in the flat, someone that was brought in by Lestrade himself. But who?

It was most definitely not Mycroft. All the signs that usually announced his brother were thankfully not there. The gauge of the stride marked by the semi-dry footprints along with the hand prints on the stair railing indicated a smaller person, scared perhaps, definitely nervous. Or maybe exited. Was Andersen in there? No, this was not a raid. John said case. Andersen, although he often volunteered to search the flat for 'incriminating' evidence, would not bother to make the trip here to simply inform Sherlock of something that may very well bring him a much needed distraction. Neither would Donovan. Besides if it was her there would be the faint lingering smell of Andersen's deodorant to prove it. So, it was not a member of the Scotland Yard. But who then?

Who did Lestrade bring over to his flat, but most importantly why?


	2. Figuring it out

"So what is it this time then Lestrade?"Said Sherlock before crossing the doorway into John's and his flat.

"Lestrade? Sorry, how did you..."John, as usual when Sherlock managed to amaze him, spun quickly on his heel and looked between Sherlock and Lestrade, before concentrating his gaze on Sherlock in order to question him.

"It was case, John, case!" Explained Sherlock. "And why is there a girl sitting in my couch? Was John's chair not good enough?"

"Never mind that Sherlock" intervened Lestrade, raising his hands as if to appease the inevitable sulk that was too follow from the detective. "I need your help. This girl simply showed up out of the blue at my doorstep. There is absolutely no information on her in our databases, or anywhere really. No missing person that fits her descriptions, nothing, and she doesn't speak, nor appears to understand a word. I simply do not know where to start, and so I've brought her here so you can help me. So please help me and tell me, what do you make of her?"

Before half of Lestrade's description was said Sherlock began to walk around the living room, pointedly avoiding looking at the mysterious girl invading their home and looking as bored as humanly possible. However, as soon as Lestrade was done with his speech, Sherlock began one of his own.

"What do I make out of it? Boring! It is boring! I really hoped you would do better. Such high hopes! And instead you bring me a boring case. I won't do it. Not until you find me something better!" Sherlock immediately took on a pout that would be the absolute envy of a small spoilt child.

"Sherlock, come on, you've got nothing better to do. You've been complaining about how bored you are" said John sternly. He was used to it by now. Sherlock loved to complain about how bored he was without a case, and yet, most of the time, as soon as one came up, he would flat out refuse to look into it.

John had to agree a bit with Sherlock though, it did not sound like there was much to it. It was terribly sad, for the girl would most likely have to go a foster home or end up in the streets, but there were many cases of people who disappeared long ago and were never found until years later when no one would recognize them and yet somehow make it back to their families. Even if the probability was low, and he was well aware that Sherlock was bound to refuse the case right away, he could not help to encourage him. Really, if there was anything that could keep his mad detective of a flat mate busy and away from shooting at a wall, it was worth the effort.

"What's the use! I can have a look and solve the case, but all the while never be able to relieve my boredom! I will not do it!" Yelled Sherlock, accomplishing to increase his sulk with the added effect of the stomping.

"Sherlock" Pleaded Lestrade, "all I ask is that you help me. It may not be the most interesting case as you say, but I don't know what to do! Just do this, and, I, I'll create a murder if I have to. Just have a look, please."

A huge puff of air and a dramatic head throw was all that Lestrade received as an answer from the detective. Yet, it was all that he needed, for in that moment Sherlock walked with measured steps towards his couch where the girl sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and arms protectively around them, eyes cast downward, and a stance that clearly showed how uncomfortable she was with her current situation.

Sherlock approached her a bit further and inclined his body to reduce the dramatic and very notorious height difference from the seated girl. The reaction was immediate. Her back visibly tensed and her arms hugged her knees tighter into her chest. Her eyes remained cast downward although they carefully traveled towards the detective's feet before being hastily returned to their original position.

Sherlock obviously noticed this for he immediately straightened back up and took a small step back, never taking his attention away from her as she seemed to relax once again. His eyes immediately narrowed and he took a bigger step in her direction, forcing a very similar reaction to the previous and less intimidating approach. He repeated this small dance at least another three times before averting his gaze and walking directly in front of the girl and towards the window. His hands slowly creeping towards each other and their usual 'thinking' position just below his mouth.

He stayed so still that John was afraid he would never reveal any of his findings to Lestrade for he was far gone into his mind palace. Multiple times, he clamped down the urge to call out his flat mate's name until Lestrade broke out everyone's concentration with a very deliberate clearing of his throat.

To John's delight Lestrade appeared to have taken Sherlock out of his trance for he immediately lowered his hands the slightest bit as a smile began to spread across his mouth.

"Oh Lestrade" he exclaimed, "be glad Andersen is not here for we may have an even bigger decrease in IQ level for the whole street! You are such idiots!"

"Yeah, yeah, just tell me what you've got" said Lestrade with the air of someone that was utterly unmoved by the rude comments that were produced out of the coat-wearing, and proud-looking detective.

"Oh no, I better not, it may very well be a tad too much for your brains"

"Alright, that is it Sherlock!" intervened John. It was alright for him to be insulted by Sherlock, he was used to it by now. However, when he began to act too proud to tell the rest of the world, or for that matter Lestrade and himself, what it was that they were missing and that would inevitably lead them to solve a case, he absolutely had to put his foot down. "Quit the drama-queen act and just tell him"

That did it. Albeit with a long and pointed look in John's direction, but it got Sherlock talking, or more like running through a speech.

"Her skin shows signs of very recent exposure to sunlight, meaning she was outside, yet we have not had a day hot enough to allow young girls such as herself to enjoy a good tan. No, her skin if very fair and delicate, it lacks any marks produced by a daily exposure to sunlight, even in the rainiest of places. She recently walked outside, probably one of the few times she's done so in her life, therefore her skin marked so easily, she had never been exposed to such 'direct' sunlight. It was on her way to your house Lestrade, after she climbed her way up from wherever they were holding her underground."

"Underground?" questioned John attempting to make sense of everything being thrown in Lestrade's and his direction.

"The light marks on her hands indicate stone. Wet and slightly slimmed stone. There are small patches of slime in her knees indicating the place was wet, making it difficult for her to grab on to the walls to climb up. Up? Yes, up, the marks on her hands show where the most amount of pressure was placed, in this case the fingers and top of the palm, meaning she was pulling herself up, not putting her weight on the bottom of her palms to keep herself from sliding down. Her shoes also have small wear on the inner side along the toes, meaning she used them to push up. We know she was escaping from the way she reacted to me approaching her. She is not used to proximity, or rather anything good coming out of it. The manner she holds her knees also means trauma, previous trauma that she's endured most of her life, she did not like her previous conditions, and so she's escaped. Her eyes are cast downward. Yes she is scared, terrified really, and yet she allowed herself to look at my feet. She wants help, needs help, but can't ask for it, doesn't know how to. She did not go to you deliberately," said Sherlock pointing at Lestrade, "she does not know the city, she stumbled upon you. I would guess she ran for a while before stopping at one of the first houses she found, in this case yours. She allowed you to take her because she recognized you. Her trauma would've caused her to run from a stranger, but you, she knew you from somewhere, probably the telly."

"Telly? I thought she was kept underground? "This time it was Lestrade who interrupted Sherlock's monologue in search of clarification.

"Yes, there must have been one. You need to keep to keep the people you have trapped quiet. No one ever taught her to talk or read, but she can still hear and make noise. She would not be able to understand anything on the telly, but it would drown any noise she could make, so she had one. She saw Lestrade on it, and probably us. She is not running away from us."

"Sorry, hold on, you said no one taught her? I thought Lestrade said she couldn't talk" John was looking between Lestrade, Sherlock and the girl, who had turned her head towards the window.

"No of course not. She has never said a word in her life. No one ever let her, but that does not mean she can't. She simply does not know any words to say."

"Yes, that is all very good and useful Sherlock, but who is she?" said a slightly exasperated Lestrade

"That, I do not know"

"Hold on, you don't know?" Exclaimed John stifling a fit of laughter that was threatening to come out.

"Yes, John, I don't know. I am a detective, a very good at that, but even then I cannot tell you a person's name by merely looking at them. I've told you everything I know about her but there is nothing else I can do. Now, Lestrade I believe you have enough information to start looking for previous offenders that fit the scenario. Oh and judging by her age, start looking for missing children from nineteen years ago. Now leave because I would like my couch back. "And with that the detective threw himself down onto said couch not half a second after Lestrade had managed to coax the young girl out of her safe spot and a couple steps away from the raging human-bloodhound.


	3. Trip down to Scotland Yard

The morning after that curious afternoon in which Lestrade brought a young girl to be looked at by Sherlock in order to attempt to decipher her story and that glorious, albeit quick, declaration in which Sherlock admitted that he did not know who she was even after using his giant brain, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade informing him that he was needed down at Scotland Yard.

There was not much to the text. It simply informed Sherlock of where his presence was requested, along with a plea to hurry.

Obviously John followed closely behind, not willing to miss any of the action.

As usual Sherlock sat in silence for the whole ride. His hands were firmly positioned below his mouth and his eyes firmly fixed of the blur of a city that was passing at the window as the cab drove along; no doubt analyzing all the possible, exciting adventures he could embark on after Lestrade disclosed as many of the details the Scotland Yard team found, or even worse, solving the case and thinking of as many insulting ways to prove that every single person in the world were idiots, for he probably figured out the whole thing based on the manner it was typed or some equally ridiculous thing that was only obvious to him.

John however was still unsure. He was almost positive the call had something to do with the mysterious, silent girl Lestrade had brought last night.

What, who knew, besides Sherlock of course.

* * *

Once the silent ride was over, John gladly got off the cab and grumpily started behind Sherlock. He had already taken off in a hurry to get as much information as possible.

John would usually not be as bothered by this, but today was not good.

John was not in a good mood. That was for sure. His knee had been hurting again, making awful popping sounds every time he moved and leading him to grunt whenever he got up, even if he had been sitting for the shortest of times. It was not surprising then that Sherlock had not paid any attention to him at all.

He was used to it by now. Sherlock tended to run off at the slightest sight of something 'fun'. He would never look behind to make sure that John was following or stop to allow those that had tagged along to catch up with his fast and long strides. John was not expecting any different.

He was used to it.

Besides, who was Sherlock to show any kind of mercy for his one friend?

No, of course not!

Therefore it was up to John, to catch up while also keep everyone else that may interfere with his mad-detective of a friend from been verbally annihilated.

However, today it made him mad. Mad enough to not want to have to do anything to do with the case, or Scotland Yard, or Sherlock for that matter.

But then again, if he simply hopped back into the cab and took it back to 221B he would miss all the action and his knee would never stop hurting.

And so, fueling himself with the wish to rid himself of that god-awful pain, John walked the rest of the way into Lestrade's office.


	4. The girl

As soon as John walked into Lestrade's office he was literally knocked down. And not in a graceful manner either.

Donovan, who was apparently waiting for him inside Lestrade's office, came out as soon as she laid eyes on John.

Running face on into someone and then stumbling backwards into the ground was most definitely not in John's list of top ten activities to do on a morning. Yet, sadly it had happened.

This, only aggravated his quickly deteriorating mood.

However, John was lucky to make it to the makeshift holding/hotel room where Lestrade, Sherlock, and -aha! - the girl were without further incidents.

There was no other way to describe the room besides a mix between a cheap hotel room and a police holding room. John had been lucky to witness enough holding rooms in the Scotland Yard; without ever actually been the person being held, thank you very much; to know that this was most definitely not how they were supposed to look like. Usually a table and a few chairs were the most luxurious things a person would get. This girl however, had what John supposed was a fairly comfortable bed. It was really a table with a thin mattress propped on top along with soft looking sheets and a pillow. This bed was pushed against the wall on the opposite side of the door in order to allow another table, this time used as intended, which was positioned in the middle of the room.

There were also four chairs in the room. One was found near the door, where Lestrade was sitting. Two of them were pushed in along the long side of the table facing the door. The last chair was currently occupied by the girl Lestrade had brought along the night before to pay Sherlock and John a visit.

Said girl was in a very similar position to the one she took while at their flat; her knees were firmly hugged against her torso. However, this time her fists were balled into fists that shook with a very slight tremor.

"Is she cold?" John could not help but voice his inner-doctor's concern, even though he knew he would immediately receive a less than appreciated remark from his less-than-considerate-and-always-irking ´friend´.

"Well of course she is not! For God's sake John, look at her! Do you often ball up your fists when you are cold? "And come it did. "Really look at her! Tell me John, what do you see?"

Oh no! Not today. John definitely did not want to be ridiculed in front of Lestrade. Some other day he may have humored Sherlock by offering what would inevitably be a shallow and useless insight. He would endure through the pain of attempting to be as detailed and observant as Sherlock to receive the slightest of praises and be let down immediately after by an insult of the same caliber to those that were usually shot in Andersen´s direction. But, no, not today. He really did not want to snap at his, yeah, his friend and risk missing the action. And so, John refused with as much calmness as he could muster.

"No! No thanks. You are the detective, not me! If she was ill, I would do it, but you just said it yourself, she is not cold, so she is not sick." Involuntarily his hands moved to clearly emphasize his point and giving his speech an agitated feeling.

Well, that did not count as snapping. John could do much worse.

Yet, Sherlock was not completely fooled for he shot John a look that clearly showed his incredulity and slight annoyance at John´s response. Luckily he decided to overlook the outburst and not-so-subtle decline, granted with a renewed stiffness of his back and coldness in his voice, in order to bewilder the current inhabitants of the room.

"She is shaking because, once again, this situation, the surroundings, remind her of something from the past. Especially because of the row she had with Lestrade before we got here. She has her back pointedly turned from Lestrade which means she is angry at him, her head is turned away from him. Her shoulders are hunched over, she is trying to protect herself even more. Her hands are in fists because she is still dwelling over the incident. The veins on Lestrade's neck show that he was recently agitated, so he was shouting, she cowered back, and Lestrade realized she was scared, so he sat down to cease the argument, yet he did not leave the room, so whatever it was you were discussing, it is important. You don´t want her to forget not do you want her to shut down on herself. You consider the ´outburst´ a step forward in the right direction. You got a reaction out of her. A negative reaction at that, but a reaction nonetheless."

"Yeah, Sherlock, I could've told you all that." Lestrade burst in. "I want to know more on her. I really do not know what to do with her."

"If there´s no information on her, why don't you send her to a home, or…" John was cut off by Sherlock who proceeded with his monologue.

"Ah, but they are John. They are sending her to a home. As you said there is no information on her, yet Lestrade can't help feeling as if there was some way in which he can help her. He thinks she chose him. Why stop at his house, out of all the other one´s she could have picked while she walked. She stopped at his. Oh yeah, it makes him feel important. She chose him. He believes there must be a reason for her to have picked him, was it his importance in Scotland Yard? Of course not! None of that matters to her. She has absolutely no idea of who we are. Yes she's seen us before, but she doesn't know anything about us. For all she knows we could be serial killers. It is just a girl after all, a girl that has been kept in the dark. He wants to help her. Personally help her. He can't bear the thought of simply handing her down to some home. It is Lestrade's sentimentality what has lead him the rest of Scotland Yard from finding out about her and why he wants us to take her with us"


	5. Going home

Hello everyone, thank you for reading my story. I hope you are enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it. If there is anything that you think I should include or if you just want to tell me what you think leave a review and I will do my best to include your suggestions as best as possible. Please Review. Thanks.

* * *

"With us?" John echoed completely and absolutely taken back.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade began to speak at the same time. Well, Lestrade began to mumble before he was roughly cut off by Sherlock, whose proud attitude was beginning to irritate John, a lot.

"Of course with us. Who else knows about her besides us?"

"Donovan." Chipped Lestrade

"Yes, Donovan. Do you see her here John? No, which means that Lestrade's first choice was not a successful one. Not surprising if you know her. The row I mentioned earlier. It was because of Donovan. Lestrade wanted them to get along. Didn't work out. Most likely the girl appeared to be more comfortable with us than with Donovan, which explains why she left as soon as she brought John here."

"You call that comfortable? She is all tense and ignoring us!" John could not help to point out the obvious. His exasperation could of course be forgiven, after all he was still attempting to get over the shock and wrap his head around the fact that Lestrade wanted them, Sherlock included, to take care of a girl. A nineteen year old girl!

"Would you rather Lestrade took her god-knows where?" Sherlock looked absolutely crazy at the moment. Arguing with John to take another person, a girl, to their flat.

"No, of course not! I don't want her to get blown up by one of your experiments either!" In John´s opinion, he was the only one acting rationally at the moment.

"Blown up! Ha!"

* * *

It was a while before John and Sherlock stopped arguing. Lestrade was completely lost. He had seen them argue before. Well, if he was being honest, their usual rows never exactly qualified as an argument, much less one of this caliber. On a normal basis, Sherlock did most of the annoying and John did the rationalizing and appeasing. When it came to their friendship, John was the only one that was able to maintain a cool, or at least the coolest, head when it concerned Sherlock. It was then an enormous surprise that in this case Sherlock was attempting to convince John to take another human being along with them. Of course Lestrade knew enough to not believe a single word Sherlock had uttered, after all he had claimed that he had absolutely no specific interest behind taking the girl with them. After all Sherlock could be planning on using her for some sort of experiment, which is why he needed John to be back in his senses and protect her from whatever crazy idea Sherlock had planned.

"I would´ve thought you would be alright with such announcement and Sherlock to be mad beyond wits, not the other way around" Proclaimed Lestrade attempting to lighten the mood after both parties had all but shouted obscenities at each other.

"And who says I am not!" John took a breath to calm himself. The shouting match with Sherlock had done nothing to help his mood, and he definitely did not want to start another one with Lestrade. "Alright. We will take her to the flat but you better find something better for her soon." Added John with a rigid finger pointed in Lestrade's direction.

With that, John took one more look in Sherlock's direction, half-expecting him to offer some amazing solution or argue against taking her. He was really hoping in vain, for during their previous argument Sherlock had continued to persuade John that it was in the girl´s best interest for them to take her.

John advanced towards the girl in a careful manner. Even during their argument, he had noticed the change in the girl´s demeanor. Her hands had begun to shake even harder, making it impossible to miss the harsh tremors now. Her arms hugged her legs even tighter into her chest, something that John previously thought impossible. However, the most concerning change was after their argument had died down and John had begun to approach her. Somehow she had managed to slowly slide her body towards the edge of the chair, giving her an appearance of someone that was ready to flee at any moment's notice, which John did not doubt was the case.

Sherlock, after seeing John walk towards the girl began to turn the other direction, and yet, he immediately stopped and abruptly turned back when the girl´s breathing became more erratic.

It all happened so quickly. Even with the subtle warning Sherlock read in the girl´s breathing he could not have predicted the assault he received.

John knew he had to be careful with the girl, but he was faced with a very difficult dilemma. He had to get the girl too follow him out into the street and into a cab, all without being able to communicate with her and while keeping her from running away. Even though he did not necessarily want her to go home with them, he could not help feeling a bit sad for her. He could imagine being in a strange place without understanding a word anyone said and being constantly reminded of some horrible thing from the past by the mere fact of sitting there. But that did not diminish the fact that Sherlock and himself were not prepared for the task of caring for her, no matter for how short of a time.

Distracted by his thoughts John took the last steps towards the girl faster than before. His mood had not died down yet, and so his hand shot out towards the girl´s shoulder, intending to signal for her to stand up and follow him. He did not get that far however. As soon as his hand was poised near her, the girl bolted from her chair and did the last thing everyone else in the room expected.

Her high-pitched scream trailed behind her and lingered in the air a few seconds after she strongly latched her arms around a terrified and befuddled Sherlock, who had barely enough time to lift his arms out of the way before they were captured along with the rest of his body.


	6. The cab to 221B Baker Street

The trip back to 221B Baker Street was more quiet than the one to Scotland Yard; especially with the new passenger sharing the ride; something that John would not have thought possible. The air inside the cab was definitely tenser, for every so often the girl that now sat in between John and Sherlock would steal quick, nervous glances towards the later, unnerving Sherlock in a matter John had not seen before. It was no doubt the still lingering memory of the girl throwing herself at Sherlock's arms that agitated him so.

If John was being honest, it had taken him by surprise as well. On a normal day, the last thing he would expect was for a young girl, or any human for that matter, to thrust themselves into the high-functioning sociopath in the room in search of shelter when other suitable options were standing in the same room.

He was well aware that he was not the sweetest-looking person; after all, he spent part of his life fighting in a war. He was not necessarily what people would call cuddling material, nonetheless, he had to be much better than Sherlock. Even Lestrade was better than Sherlock!

Why that girl chose Sherlock, John had absolutely no idea. The memory alone still stunned him speechless. He had seen young children scream at the sight of the detective, and that had being eerie enough at the time, but this time, when the girl had bolted from the chair with a high-pitched wail trailing behind her. John had been, to say the least, shocked. But then she had done the unthinkable and approached the one person that would not welcome any kind of physical reaction. That alone had been even scarier than the children screaming.

Sherlock, as expected, had attempted to push the girl away from him.

That part was a bit funny, or John thought so at least.

No two seconds after the girl had latched her hands behind Sherlock's back, Sherlock had brought his own hands; which he had raised in the air to keep them from being trapped in the bear-hug; to the girl´s shoulders and began to push her backwards. However, because the girl was so terrified, she had locked her knees, and as soon as Sherlock´s shoving became more forceful and frantic, the girl lost her balance, which in turn lead for Sherlock to lose his footing and tumble on top of the poor girl.

That had surprisingly not startled the girl, which annoyed John a bit. She had bolted from him when his hand was near her shoulder, but when Sherlock crushed her with his bony frame she hurried to hug him again for dear life. Sherlock had of course renewed his attempt to peel her off of him, with no success whatsoever. He had then looked up pleadingly to John´s eyes and called his name in such an outraged manner that drove John over the edge and started laughing out loud. Of course Sherlock had not appreciated it at all and had murderously glared at the doctor until Lestrade was able to coax the girl to release her death-grip and walk out of the room.

Sherlock had not forgiven John that easily, for John´s dismay, and refused to even acknowledge his existence while they waited for a cab. John supposed that his occasional giggling outbursts did not help the matter at all, but he really could not help it. It had just been hilarious to see the one person that had previously annoyed the heck out of him sprawled in the floor in a very similar fashion to what he had done earlier in the morning.

It was then why they were now in the cab in utter silence and a rigid air hanging over their heads.

If it had been up to John the girl would have sat on one end of the seat next to Sherlock and not himself for that only led her to become a bundle of nerves once again, but as soon as the cab had stopped, Sherlock had opened the door and climbed in. The door would have closed seconds after, John was sure, as usually whenever Sherlock had something to think about he would take his own cab and leave John to take the next one. This time however, to John's delight, the girl had immediately freed herself from Lestrade's grasp and climbed after Sherlock, giving John enough time to hold the door and get himself safely inside before the car took off.

And so now they were sitting in silence while the girl tried to get as close as possible to Sherlock and Sherlock continued to scoot as far away from her reach inside the constrictions of the slow moving cab.


	7. Good God!

Once they arrived to 221B Baker Street the silent spell that had fallen over all the cab passengers was broken. John nonetheless was not completely sure it was for the better. Sure, it was nice to not be caught between the angry stare of the annoyed detective and the uncomfortable little shifts from the girl which he had to endure during the whole ride. However, now he was caught between the exasperated sighs and murmured comments coming from Sherlock at being followed around by the young girl, Mrs. Hudson's fussing after the girl, and the teenager´s little squeaks every time Mrs. Hudson got too close or too loud or was simply being her mother-like self.

John on his part was well aware that approaching the girl was of no use whatsoever. If he did, the girl would most likely jump into Sherlock's arms, and to be honest, he was quite terrified Sherlock would drop her on the floor or some other ridiculous thing that would lead her to get hurt, and as a doctor, he could not allow that.

Try as he might, he could not concentrate on the newspaper he had left unread this morning. All the noise coming from around the dining room, where Sherlock was attempting to do who-knows-what, kept distracting him.

After reading the same first sentence for the tenth time, Mrs. Hudson announced that she would go down to her flat and hunt for some things they might need to take care of the girl for the next few days, and so now some of the peace was restored. The girl had at least stopped squealing.

"Good God! Stop following me! You are not a puppy, you are a girl! Just sit over there and let me work!" Well, so long peace! Sherlock had not lasted even two seconds before he voiced his annoyance. He had just had enough of the girl and was now attempting to make the girl sit on the ground between the living room and the dining table.

"John, do something! I can't work with her breathing down my neck!" Yelled Sherlock, who although had yet to forgive John for laughing at him, was desperate enough to break his silence and beg for help.

"And what do you want me to do? It is not like I can simply go over there and drag her to the sofa, unless you fancy falling on the floor again." John knew that his friend needed assistance and he could not help feeling bad for not being able to provide it, but he really did not want to endure watching the girl run away from him again.

"No! Stop!" Sherlock´s try at making her sit on the ground had backfired and was turning into another laugh-worthy event.

The girl was sitting on the ground alright, but she was holding onto Sherlock's wrists while giggling happily as she attempted to pull him down along with her. Sherlock on his part has pulling back in an effort to stand straight again, which only made her laugh harder as she obviously thought it to be some kind of amusing game.

"Stop it! This is not a game! Stop!" Sherlock continued to yell at her in an attempt to make her understand.

Luckily, at that moment Mrs. Hudson came back in carrying bottles and some items of clothing she had found down in her flat and was placing them down in a basket by the sofa. As soon as she laid eyes on Sherlock and the girl, she exclaimed in her usual manner: "Oh, Sherlock!" The only difference was that this time she did not meant it as a reproach for some hole he had created on the wall, or a new stain that had landed on her floor from the chemicals Sherlock continued to use in his experiments; instead it was because now he had given up on pulling away from the girl and was shaking his arms in an attempt to loosen up the strong hold around his wrists.

John was sure that if Sherlock had really wanted to free himself he could have very easily done so, for although he was quite lean and slender in structure he possessed more strength than people would guess. Of course if he did, he would most likely end up hurting the girl. That in itself said a lot about the detective, at least to John. Sherlock could claim that he did not care about other people all he wanted, but he obviously cared enough to not want to hurt this girl who was clearly driving him mad.

"Mrs. Hudson, just get her out of here!" It would appear that Sherlock only cared long enough to let Mrs. Hudson put the things down on top of the coffee table by John´s feet.

"Oh alright, but do not start yelling at me when she starts yelling and running again" said Mrs. Hudson with an air of resignation and with good reason, for as predicted, as soon as she got near Sherlock and the girl, the girl´s efforts to pull him down were used instead to climb up and struggle to hug Sherlock again. Yet, thanks to the detective´s quick reflexes, he was able to slide his hands free and jump backwards out of the girl´s reach.

"I´ll just go make a cuppa, fancy some?" Of course no one answered John because they were busy trying to deal with the now wriggling girl, but it made him feel useful to ask and busy himself making tea for everyone, even if he was going to be the only one drinking it.

From the kitchen he could hear the girl´s squeals, Mrs. Hudson´s reassuring words, Sherlock´s annoyed bickering, some banging; no doubt coming from the girl as she moved about the floor; Mrs. Hudson´s exasperated quibble directed at Sherlock, and some other shuffling which meant they were still having major difficulty getting the girl to let go of Sherlock.

For a second John really considered going in there and walking in between Sherlock and the girl to make her run the other direction. That would solve their problem. But then again, he did not want to give the poor girl a heart attack or a nervous breakdown.

Once the tea was ready, John walked back to the living room while carrying a tray with cups and biscuits.

Surprisingly the noise had died down. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight. Sherlock has back in the dining room bent over some experiment, obviously sulking over whatever had happened while he was in the kitchen. The girl was sitting in the couch with her arms crossed and facing the opposite direction from where Sherlock was standing.

He carefully set the tray in the coffee table and grabbed a cup for himself before asking Sherlock if he would like some. The detective accepted, but to John´s appall, the private detective simply extended his hand, clearly waiting for the cup to be deposited on it.

In lieu of starting another fight, John simply groaned to himself and set to start on Sherlock's tea, attempting to prepare it to his liking. He was not expecting for Sherlock to go back into the living room and chat with John while they both sipped on their tea, in fact he was expecting him to simply go back to whatever he was working on, but instead the detective stood up, took his cup and saucer from John, and walked to his room.

John was left standing with his mouth wide open staring after the retreating detective´s back. The closing door snapped John out of is trance and got him moving back to his chair only to find himself staring straight into the girl's eyes.

Because he really did not want to scare her again he settled in his chair, slowly blowing on his hot tea and picking up his newspaper once again to begin reading it in hopes of actually retaining the information this time, only to be interrupted shortly after by a soft pressure on his foot. Once he put the newspaper down he saw the girl leaning on his foot curiously peeking into his cup which was sitting on top of the coffee table.

As soon as she noticed him looking at her, she hastily retreated back into the couch and resumed her previous position with her arms crossed across her chest and her head turned away from him.

John was at a loss as to what to do. On one side it was quite obvious she was curious about the drink, but at the same time she seemed reluctant to acknowledge John´s presence, even if she had used his foot as a pillow.

In the end, John decided that if she wanted to ignore him, he would do the same, and so he picked his newspaper back up.

He was not that lucky however. He was interrupted twice more before he decided to simply get her a cup of her own in order to regain his peace and finish reading his newspaper.

As soon as the cup was ready he rested it on the coffee table and slowly pushed it in her direction, hoping that she would understand the gesture. Thankfully she did. Yet disaster was not adverted to John´s utter dismay. No sooner than he had settled back in his chair and picked up his newspaper once again, she took the offered cup and grabbed it while ignoring the handle. Consequently she dropped the cup, which broke and spilled its contents all over the floor with the fall, before John could even register the pained scream that came from the girl as she nurtured her burnt hand.

John immediately sprung to action as his inner doctor took over. Wanting have a look at her burnt hand he reached for her before she could pull away, however, that only lead her to scream while using her good arm to push at him to be released. When she realized that tactic was useless, she used her weight to drop towards the ground, which did work, causing her hand to slide off of John´s circling one as he did not want to hurt her injured hand. Yet, with her renewed freedom she made a dash to the dining room and rounded on the table, putting said item in between John and herself, and in the process bumping the many container and utensils Sherlock had left on top.

Time seemed to slow down for John for a while. He could clearly see one big container with some clear liquid in it wobble back and forth as it fought to keep upright. In the back of his mind, he could hear Sherlock's door opening and closing once again and steps approaching the dining room. A faint no was heard in what he thought to be Sherlock's voice, and immediately the container tumbled down, followed by a cascade of another six or seven containers of different sizes. Immediately time caught up with him, and he saw the girl duck under the table and charge towards the pieces of glass perilously pointing at her hands, and before anyone could stop her, she wrapped her fingers around some pieces before yelling in pain and retreating once again as far away as possible from where John, and now Sherlock, stood.

Sherlock immediately began raging about the lost experiment and wasted time before angrily looking in the general direction in which the girl was hiding. In that second, John lunged himself towards Sherlock in order to restrain him, for he appeared to be ready to rip the girl apart. That seemed to have calmed Sherlock the slightest bit who let out an angry breath but remained rooted to the spot. John on his part was itching to move and look at the girls hand to heal both the burnt and very likely chemical damage, or probably even cut from the shards of glass.

It was then that the chase began as both Sherlock and John attempted to reach the girl hiding underneath the table. John was sure Sherlock was doing it for some reason completely different to his, and he really hoped it was not to murder her for breaking his precious experiment, for if he did, he would then have to murder Sherlock himself before Lestrade wanted to have a go.

After a few tries Sherlock ducked under the table. John was glad for that for he was starting to feel really silly moving from side to side without being able to get close to the girl, however, he was not very encouraged by what he heard. As soon as Sherlock disappeared under the table, the girl pushed herself against John´s legs. She was soon pulled roughly away, which she definitely did not appreciate, if the screams and punches were anything to go by. Seconds later Sherlock emerged while holding a wriggling and frantic girl. Her hand was clearly bleeding and had stained her shirt, yet that did not kept her from aiming some blows at Sherlock's arms and shoulders.

"Stop it!" Sherlock repeated over and over again but the girl would not cease her fight. However, there was one surprising thing that made both the doctor and detective freeze in place.

A weak and somewhat shaky voice slurred something that sounded awfully close to stop.


	8. Burns, cuts, and what?

Time appeared to have frozen once again for John as his brain attempted to comprehend the recent events. There was Sherlock trying to hold on to the poor girl whose hand was bleeding and showed a few medium-sized pieces of glass in it. The girl had obviously been startled by her own outburst along with her companions. John's look of disbelief could hardly be rivaled by that upon Sherlock's face.

"Did she ..." As soon as John found his voice time caught up with him with such force it was impossible for him to continue. Luckily, he was talking to the one and only Sherlock Holmes, who had no trouble whatsoever understanding his reference and followed in kind.

"Sounded like it" Sherlock had now managed to school his expression back to his usual stony semblance, although his eyes still showed some of his astonishment as he stared hard at the girl found within his strong grip.

"Right." John however, was not as skilled at controlling his emotions as Sherlock. On some other occasion, with a different audience, he would have been able to maintain an absolute adamant countenance, but when he was with the detective, well, all bets were off.

"I... I thought you said..." John continued to struggle with his speech. He had found his voice again, that was true, but his ability to form full sentences was still hindered by the incredible shock he had just endured, so he settled by simply asking: "How?"

"Not the slightest." Apparently, although Sherlock had his face back under control, he was still suffering the aftermath of the shock. And he clearly realized it too, for he immediately stood straighter and forced a small cough.

Funny enough, that admission was not as mind boggling as it should have been for John. After all, Sherlock had admitted to not knowing once again. It was rare enough this would happen, but John had seen it, not once, but twice in the last twenty-four hours. Yet, his brain was currently occupied with the futile task of deciphering what he had just witnessed.

Sherlock had claimed that the girl was incapable of either speaking or understanding English since she had never been taught the language. To John, that had not ruled out the possibility that she would speak a different language. However, as Sherlock had been kind enough to shout at John during the row he had with the detective while he attempted to convince Sherlock that it was not a good idea for them to house a girl who was no doubt terrified of him and most likely did not even speak the language, the girl simply did not speak. No, she didn't speak a different language, for if that was the case, she would have at some point muttered something in whatever her native language was. If it was the shock, as John had claimed, that kept her silent, the scare she had at Lestrade's office would have made her talk or give some indication of her ability to speak, which she did not. It was then absolutely stunning to have witnessed the girl asking Sherlock to stop. True it had been quite weak and barely understandable, but she had formed a word, which according to Sherlock's previous argument, should not have been possible as she did not know how.

Now, as they all stood there, petrified, looking at each other in search of answers, the broke everyone's concentration by repeating her previous statement with the slightest bit of confidence. She still stumbled as she began, but was able to maintain her courage as she looked from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock.

It was then that John decided that before anything else happened and the private detective became a statue and ignored the rest of the room as he worked out all the possible answers to their conundrum, he had to resume his original task before disaster occurred. He had to heal the girl's hand, which now had a minor surface burn and a nasty cut that was bleeding, and no doubt hurting more as time passed by. Therefore, bracing himself for whatever happened once he made his intentions clear to Sherlock and began his ministrations, he started:

"Sherlock. Umm. Before you go to your mind palace and all that, I need your help. The girl, she burnt her hand, nothing terribly bad, just some hot tea that splashed on her hand, and now she's got glass in it, and we've got to get it out, but she won't let me near her. But I must take the glass out, Sherlock, and look at the burn. You are going to have to hold her. Sherlock, you... Are you listening to me Sherlock?"

"Yes, the glass. Take it out" It was clear that Sherlock was not really paying attention to what John had said for he immediately released one of the girl's arms and extended his own hand towards John.

"Not yours, Sherlock! Her hand, it's in her hand!" Why the girl had not attempted to move away from Sherlock was still a surprise to John. If it had being him, and he wanted to get away from his captor, now would have been the time since Sherlock had released one of her hands, slacked his other arm, and was clearly confused as to what was happening. One strong pull and she would be free.

Right at that moment, Mrs. Hudson came back from the bathroom next to Sherlock's room. She seemed to be very happy with whatever she had accomplished while in there, for she was holding her interlaced hands near her collarbone, with her shoulders slightly raised as she walked towards the chaotic scene in the living room. The moment she laid eyes on the three of them, her hands fell to her sides and her shoulders visibly dropped. The small smile on her face dramatically changed to a look of pure horror as the blood-stained shirt and bleeding hand became visible from where she was standing.

"Oh Sherlock, what happened? I was only gone a couple minutes, and you've got her all bleeding!" immediately Mrs. Hudson's eyes moved to John, "And you John, I expected more. You are a doctor. You can't let Sherlock hurt this poor girl."

"Me, hurt this girl. Mrs. Hudson! It was your good doctor that caused all this." Clearly Sherlock was back to himself if he was able to process Mrs. Hudson's slight rebuke and be outraged by it.

"He chased her into the dining room, all for a small bit of tea that was spilled. My experiments, she broke them, and now she's got half my containers in her hand." At this, he took possession of the girl's injured hand once again and displayed it in the direction Mrs. Hudson was walking from.

"And how do you plan on taking them out? Can't have her running about again, she could get them in even deeper." Mrs. Hudson as always, was already tending to the matters from a maternal point of view.

"Sherlock is going to hold her so I can take them out" John said matter-of-factly. Too bad if Sherlock had not paid attention to him earlier when he had given him a chance to argue.

"Hold her?" No surprise there. This was Sherlock after all.

"Oh come on Sherlock, just keep her still for a bit while John takes them out." Argued Mrs. Hudson, who apparently agreed with John's solution.

"But, she'll strangle me!" cried an outraged Sherlock, it was clear he was losing the battle against Mrs. Hudson.

"No she won't. Now let me get you something to put the glass in, John, and why don't you go get your things to heal her." Mrs. Hudson was already walking to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock, John, and the girl standing there.

"Hmmm" And battle lost. Sherlock had lost with no more choice but to sigh in frustration.

"Yeah, alright" John said, too surprised to say much more after what he had just witnessed.

John walked to his room and got his medical kit. After living with the detective for so long, he had acquired quite a few medical instruments that he would not possess under normal circumstances, such as the required utensils to stitch a cut. He was hoping however, to not have to do that to the girl. It was one thing to do it to Sherlock or even himself, since they were fully aware of what would be happening, but the girl, well, she was aware of the cut on her hand, but most likely would not understand they were going to stitch up her hand, unless she had had it done before, which John really hoped was not the case.

As John made his way out of his room and towards the living room, he could not help but to be wary. No sound was coming from that direction. That could mean only a few things. One Sherlock could've used the opportunity to run out of the flat, leading the girl to follow him and most likely get lost in the city, and therefore they would never see her again. Two, Sherlock had strangled her and was now gloating as he did not have to put up with the girl any longer. Well, if he was honest, that was not really possible, because John did not believe Sherlock capable of murder and Mrs. Hudson was next to him, no doubt keeping an eye out. The last option was that Sherlock had graciously accepted his fate and sat down waiting for John to return with the necessary equipment. This was not possible either. At least not Sherlock doing anything graciously, without any complaints or pointed glares.

Surprisingly, and thankfully, the third option was the closest to what John encountered as he reached the living room. Sherlock was moodily sitting in the couch with his arms crossed. His whole posture showed how unfair he believed the situation to be. The girl was sitting next to Sherlock with her right hand, the one that was unharmed, firmly wrapped around Sherlock forearm and tucked in between Sherlock's arm-pretzel, a task that John had no doubt must have been hard to accomplish. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in a chair from the dining room that had been pulled next to the couch. The coffee table was devoid of the previous clutter than laid upon it, which was now piled on the floor next to it. Instead, now a new set of things rested on the coffee table, which had also been pulled closer to the couch. There was a medium bowl with water, a small piece of soap, a clean rag, a plate with a paper-towel folded on it, and some extra paper-towels piled next to the plate. Some room had clearly been left open for John to place his utensils, for which he wasted no time and began pulling out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, tweezers, some cotton balls, gauze, tape, and his stitching pack, which he carefully hid away from the girl's view but did not discarded completely in case it was necessary; all this he laid on the table before carefully approaching the couch and slowly sitting down.

To his utmost surprise, the girl did not attempt to run away from him. She merely flinched a bit, scooting closer to Sherlock, who dejectedly ignored this and allowed her to tighten her hold on his arm. John gingerly got closer to her and extended his hand towards the girl´s injured one, which she was cradling within her lap. At Mrs. Hudson's encouraging words, the girl raised her eyes from the floor to meet hers and then immediately turned them towards Sherlock, who had, by some miracle tore his own eyes away from the opposite side of the flat and was now looking at the girl with mild curiosity.

John was not sure what it was that she saw in Sherlock's eyes that made her fully understand what was to happen, however, he was grateful for it. The girl immediately lowered her own eyes towards her injured hand, before staring back into the detective´s curious orbs. That seemed to have given the girl all the encouraging and security she needed, for after a few seconds in which her eyes lingered straight at Sherlock's, they were slowly turned on John, along with the reluctant movement of her bleeding hand towards John.

Bewildered as he was, John was able to keep his head and he instantly took advantage of this rare chance and carefully circled his own fingers around the slim wrist to place it on his lap. Taking the tweezers, he began pulling the small pieces of glass out of the trembling hand as delicately as possible. He was aware that this task would probably be a bit painful for the girl, and so he wanted to cause her as little pain as possible and not brake the very delicate trust she had placed on him, even it had been reluctant and encouraged by the fact that Sherlock was sitting next to her.

While John slowly worked his way around the pieces of glass, no one made a sound. Mrs. Hudson silently twisted her hands as she observed the piling shreds of glass on the plate in front of John. Sherlock continued to study the girl as she bravely held her hand still as John prodded and twisted her hand to get the best access the cuts. Now and then the girl would shift a bit in the couch, or would lean closer to Sherlock, making the only noises in the room the soft creaking of the sofa and the clinking of glass as the pieces were placed on top of the other.

As John worked, he could not help to think about how unlike Sherlock it was to allow the girl to hold him and use him as a medium of comfort. Mrs. Hudson for example, would not hesitate to hug the girl through the whole ordeal while stroking her hair to reassure her that the pain was momentaneous. Even he would be willing to offer more physical contact than his forearm to the distressed girl. Yet, Sherlock, who barely ever displayed any type of physical response nor appreciated them, had allowed the girl to press herself very close to him and for his arm to be captured in the firm grip without much protest. He had surely made some sort of protest, if the crossed arms and sulky look were anything to go by, but he had not been vocal about it, and from John's experience, if Sherlock did not want something or had something he wanted to say, he had no problem whatsoever making his opinion known, and he had not heard a single sound from his room as he was procuring the kit.

As his ministrations came to an end, John dreaded the next step. He would have to wash and disinfect the cut. Although Sherlock had assured him that none of the chemicals contained in the broken vials were dangerous either on skin contact nor absorbed into the bloodstream, he had to clean the abrasion. Using one of the unused paper-towels, John dipped it in the water and cleaned as much of the blood as he could, careful not to add to much pressure. Then he used the soap to carefully lather her hand before dipping her hand in the bowl in order to rinse the soap with the water. When that was done, he carefully tapped the hand dry before positioning it above the bowl with water again. John could not help giving Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock one last meaningful look before he grabbed the bottle of rubbing alcohol, to which Mrs. Hudson gave a curt nod and slid forward in her chair. Taking another bracing breath, John began to pour the clear liquid over the girl's hand.

To everyone's relief, the only indication of distress coming from the girl was a small squeaky grunt as she buried her face into the hollow of Sherlock elbow, to which Sherlock, to John's utter dismay, responded by placing his hand, which had previously laid in that exact spot, on top on the girl's hair.

Thankfully, before John could empty more of the bottle over the palm he held above the water, Mrs. Hudson tipped the bottle back, snapping John out of his amazement and back to his task, and handed his a soft cotton ball as they both wiped the excess liquid.

A few seconds later it was done. They had succeeded at healing the girls cut. The burn was not even visible, yet John did not doubt the skin was a bit tender, and so set to spreading some balm on the cut-free areas as an alternative to staring at the light hand resting over the girl's head and unreadable look on his friend. Mrs. Hudson then stood up and walked back to the kitchen to clean and throw away the stained equipment.

After John's duty was finished he began to carefully wrap the girl's hand with the gauze and tape. He did so at a slower pace than his practiced hands needed to, he was spending as much time as he could to allow Mrs. Hudson to finish her own chore and come back and relieve John of having to look again at the almost-caring gesture Sherlock was expressing upon the girl.

To John's delight and yet, not so much, but absolutely, to Sherlock's sheer consternation, Mrs. Hudson came back before John was able to finish his own task bearing incredible news:

"Well, now that's done. I've put all the things you will need in that basket. There's a few clothes that I think will fit her for the night and tomorrow, although you will have to go shopping soon. I've also left you with a few trifles she may like to keep busy for a while. You better put her to bed soon, she's had a tiring day I am sure, but first Sherlock, as she likes you, I think you better help her have a wash."


	9. 221B Baker Street: Bed, bath, and Breakf

Hello, I do not know what happened but a couple of chapters got jumbled up but they are fixed now so the story should make sense now. I'm sorry about that. Enjoy and thank you for reading!

* * *

No sooner than Mrs. Hudson's words were out of her mouth, Sherlock stood up abruptly, causing the girl to tumble out of the couch and onto the floor in a pitiful sprawl as she attempted to shield her semi-wrapped hand from further damage.

"Bathe her?" Sherlock screamed as pure indignation crept over his semblance. The irritation at having been given such a task was preventing him for forming complete, coherent words, and so he settled for sputtering in anger.

John on the other hand did not even attempt to express the hilarity of the situation through words, since he knew he would not be capable of doing so. Instead he grinned broadly as he stared back and forth between the very displeased Sherlock and a somewhat-complacent looking Mrs. Hudson.

"Well of course!" answered Mrs. Hudson. "Just look at her. Poor darling. What she needs is a hot bath, a nice change of clothes, and a good, long sleep. She'll be good as new. Besides Sherlock, someone's got to do it. John can't unless she keeps up all the neighbors with her screaming, and I've got my hip and all. Besides, she likes you"

As if to prove her point, the girl stood up from her spot on the ground and moved to hide behind Sherlock while pulling his elbows backwards to conceal herself even further. Sherlock of course, did not appreciate her work and pulled his arms forward with a great air of pique, to which she responded with a look of utmost confusion.

"Well Mrs. Hudson, I think you better stop taking those soothers for you hip if they are making you believe Sherlock will help bathe a girl, but it's alright, we'll manage. You go down yourself and we'll get her all ready." Said John as he led Mrs. Hudson out of the flat. John was not completely sure exactly how they were going to manage such a task, but one thing was sure, the hand Sherlock had placed on top of the girl's head meant he did not dislike her as much as he claimed, but as long as Mrs. Hudson was here, Sherlock would never acknowledge that small fact, and therefore, indulge Mrs. Hudson of the pleasure of watching him care for another human being. If she was gone, well, then there was a small possibility that Sherlock would cave the smallest of bits after some arguing and convincing from John's part.

As soon as Mrs. Hudson was gone, John turned on Sherlock ready to start pleading and stating the many reasons why Sherlock had to be the one to help the girl, one of which was the fact that Sherlock himself had done his best to persuade John to take the girl in. To his surprise, as soon as the door closed with a soft click and he turned on the detective, Sherlock released a frustrated sigh and announced, loud enough for the descending Mrs. Hudson to hear, that he would do it, simply because he was the only one capable of doing it while causing the minimal amount of destruction to the flat, and most importantly, his experiments, and that his two main conditions were: one, John would have to help him if the situation escalated to chaos, and two, that John would never tell anyone about it, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not even Mrs. Hudson; which in John's opinion, was rather pointless for Sherlock had made it quite clear that he had agreed to the task at hand, she would also most likely hear and come to their aid if the situation required it; but obviously he agreed.

* * *

It had been about ten minutes ago that Sherlock had padded into the bathroom with the quiet girl trailing behind him. The door had been left wide open and so the sounds travelled free of obstructions to where John was currently sitting in his chair. He had heard the water running which meant that Sherlock had indeed filled the bath. He had also heard Sherlock attempt to inform the girl that she was supposed to get into the bath and wash, which was obviously not understood for Sherlock's voice began to raise as he repeated himself over and over again.

John could clearly picture the situation. The girl standing next to bathtub, looking mutedly at Sherlock while he gestured madly from her to the water, back and forth, back and forth, until his frustration had gotten the better of him. Then Sherlock manhandling the girl into the water. That part he did not have to guess at so much because he heard a clear splash of water and a soft thudding sound, which meant someone had been placed in the tub with a little bit of force.

Looking at his watch now and seeing as it now pointed at eleven thirty, fifteen minutes since he had sat down in his very comfortable chair, he decided to go and check on the detective and the girl. He had not heard much noise, which was surely a good thing. Or at least, it meant that both the bathroom's occupants had reached some kind of understanding; what it was, he was not completely sure. John was simply happy they were not running around the flat again trying to catch the girl. Yet, when he peeked around the opened door he could not help but smile a little and had to fight to contain a small laugh that threatened to escape.

The girl was in the water alright. However, it seemed that Sherlock had decided to not waste the perfectly good water and wash her clothes at the same time since they were still being worn by the young girl. The splash John had heard had obviously not missed Sherlock whose clothes now stuck to his body as much as the girl's did to her.

"I see you decided to bathe as well Sherlock" John could really not help it. It was either making a small comment or bursting out laughing. Yet it seemed he was destined to do both. As soon as Sherlock opened his mouth to no doubt deliver a sharp retort at John, the girl scooped a handful of water and dropped it on top of Sherlock's head. The water ran down his face and plastered his usually curly hair to his head. John was driven over the edge and began laughing out loud, hard, especially when Sherlock spluttered a small mouthful of water and turned to stare murderously at the girl.

* * *

The rest of the bath was less eventful compared to the beginning. John still did not know who much washing actually went on as most of the water was poured over Sherlock's head, but at least they were both well soaked. However, when the time came to get the girl to dry she started running away just like before. This time though, she was running from a soft-looking towel Sherlock kept trusting in her direction. Why, John had no idea, but now, he was attempting to mop up most of the water that was pooled around the flat from all the spots both the detective and the girl had stood on.

In the end, Sherlock won when the girl slipped on her wet feet and landed on the floor and started giggling as if that had been the most fun she had ever had in her life, which just might have been for all they knew. Sherlock of course, was not amused, and so he dragged her back to the bathroom to attempt to indicate to her that she was supposed to change into dry clothes. That proved to not be successful either for Sherlock eventually gave up, after gesturing widely and enunciating slowly what the intention was, and closed the door behind him, trapping the girl inside to figure out what to do by herself, and by some miracle, she did manage to do just that.

Mrs. Hudson had brought a night shirt that ended up being a tad too big for the skinny girl. The sleeves hung a bit past her shoulders and the hem reached well below the middle of her shins. John supposed that on Mrs. Hudson it would have been a quite modest night shirt with a pretty pattern, but on the girl, well, it was simply ridiculous.

After the drying and dressing had been taken care of, both Sherlock and John were ready to turn in for the night, however, there was still one question left in John's mind.

"Where is she going to sleep Sherlock, because I do hope you thought about that before agreeing to bring her here?" said John before Sherlock had the chance to ask himself.

"Of course I thought of that! She'll be sleeping in your room of course." As soon as Sherlock made that declaration, he spun on his heel as flashed John a smile that was meant to look both as innocent and devious at the same time.

"Yeah" said John before he was able to process what had happened correctly. "Hold on. What?! She can't! Why mine?"

"She can't sleep in mine, now can she? Just think of how uncomfortable she would be. I would be pacing back and forth all night. Oh, and the experiments, John. You know how much I love to work on them at random times off the night. We don't want her to get blown up, now do we?"

* * *

Oh, he despised Sherlock so much right now. And that fake innocent smile as well.

John had somehow lost the argument against Sherlock to see who would have to give up their bedroom to accommodate for their new guest. If John had had his way, it would've been Sherlock who would be waking up with a terrible crick in the neck and a sore shoulder, but somehow; John was still not sure how it did happen because he had a very good argument; he lost and had to give up his room.

So far he had not heard any noise from either room, which was surprising. He had expected Sherlock to be awake by now, it was after all well into the morning, and as Sherlock had declared the night before, he tended to work in his experiments since almost sunrise.

With nothing else to do to occupy his mind, John set himself to make some breakfast. Truly, he was not doing much. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to bring them some scones and muffins and stored them in the kitchen at some point during their chaotic evening, and so now John simply had to pull them out and set them on a plate. He was sure Sherlock would be waking up as soon as he heard the noises coming from the kitchen and since there was no real case, besides taking care of the girl of course, he would be eating, and so John pulled out enough plates and food for the three of them in case the girl woke up as well.

No sooner than John was done arranging the plate, a drowsy grunt and soft thud emanating from Sherlock's room demanded his attention. Walking as fast as he dared after having woken up no more than five minutes ago, John made his way to Sherlock's room and knocked on the door as well as voicing his concern for the well-being of his flat mate. When there was no answer to two consecutive knocks John announced he was going to open the door. As he did so he smiled once again at the sight that met him.

Still tangled in the bed sheets, Sherlock had fallen to the ground and was now staring back at his previous location. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, the girl, who had gone to bed the night before in John's room, was comfortably cuddled in the spot that used to be next to the detective. She had clearly woken up during the night and crawled into Sherlock's bed. She had managed to do that without waking up the detective, which was clearly the reason behind the confused look Sherlock bore as he attempted to realize what had happened.

With one last laugh, John closed the door once again and made his way back to the kitchen and the breakfast that awaited him.


	10. Answers

Hello, sorry it took me so long! I know this is a short chapter but I promise I will try to make the next one a long one. Thank you for staying with the story.

* * *

Since breakfast was a silent affair, John was able to muse alongside Sherlock. Who knew what Sherlock was deducing about the girl who was currently munching on a corner of a nice looking scone. Sherlock had settled with silently ingesting his breakfast while solely concentrating on burning a hole on the girl's forehead. He was definitely not over the little surprise from earlier in the morning.

John thought it to be quite endearing. It was clear that the girl had found solace in the detective, however, from what he had observed; well, he had guessed mostly, but he had made those guesses based on his own observations and the very few deductions Sherlock had decided to share with him; the girl did not strike him as someone who would normally and so easily show such blatant displays of affection. True, she had clung to Sherlock every time she had been in distress, yet, John had thought; and if he was been honest with himself, hoped so too; that it was no more than that, a safety-blanket of sorts. A tall and bony safety-blanket.

Nonetheless, as unnerving and hilarious as the small lets-cuddle-with-Sherlock-times had been, there was a more pressing matter buzzing constantly around John's head, prodding him until he could not ignore it anymore no matter how hard he tried. How did the girl managed to say stop? Did she actually speak but had refused to do it before because of whatever happened to her? Did she understand English? Was Sherlock wrong then? He had said that the girl didn't know how to speak and yet she had done it, so Sherlock had to be wrong, and well, that was something. Would she speak again?

"Are you going to simply sit there and make faces at the girl or are you going to ask?" Apparently Sherlock had noticed John's silent dilemma and could not take any more of it.

"Oh sorry. It's just…You…I still don't understand. She said stop earlier, but how?" John wasn't sure where to start so he supposed that was as good a start as any.

"Finally John! You are asking the right questions, not where would she sleep or what is she going to eat? It doesn't matter! But how?! Oh, that's a good start!" As Sherlock spoke he stood up abruptly form his chair and continued to gesticulate madly indicating that John's attempting at explaining the fog inside his head had been understood by the detective. "I told you before she didn't know how to speak, and I was right. She didn't. But she does now. How? She observed. Stop. She caught on to that one word. She heard and saw me say it, so she mimicked it. Did you see how she struggled at the beginning? Well, it clearly wasn't because she is shy, it was because she did not know how to form the word. She had never attempted to say anything before but she has now. She discovered she can communicate and so she will do it again, all we have to do is wait for her to find another word. It could be anything. Oh, this is finally becoming a bit fun!"

* * *

"So this is your great idea Sherlock?"

John could not help feel as disillusioned as he did right now. A few minutes before, Sherlock had announced that he had a magnificent way through which they would be able to teach the poor girl sitting on the sofa in front of John a couple of new words. They way this new and mysterious activity had been announced had John believing that it would be, at least to some miniscule degree, fun. The tone was almost identical to the jollity in Sherlock's voice once a new case came up and released him from his incessant boredom.

He was wrong.

This was in no way or manner fun at all.

The plan was to hold a series of books and read words at loud to the girl. According to her body language Sherlock would judge the level of interest she had in each particular word. He would then repeat the words until the girl learned them.

When Sherlock pronounced the order of business John could not believe it and had to corroborate for himself, but when Sherlock handed him the first book he barely held back a groan as he pictured the next couple of hours of his life reciting every word found in; the book was a, a, a dictionary!


	11. World upside down

I know it has been a long time since I updated. I am sorry. I hope this two new chapters can make up a little bit for the wait.

Tell me what you love or hate about them in the comments or if there are still unanswered questions I need to address, although keep in mind that some may be kept that way purposely. Thank you for sticking to the story, I truly appreciate it.

* * *

"Alright, that's it Sherlock, I cannot do this any longer." Said John throwing his hands up in a clear sign that he was indeed done.

Sherlock on his part, simply looked up not worrying to hide his perplexity as to what John was referring to. Really, it wasn't that hard. Boredom had basically oozed out of John's ears for the last few hours as he attempted to please his flatmate by continuously reading the never-ending and absolutely tiresome list of words found in the dictionary currently sitting on his lap.

There was no point to it whatsoever. The girl had not shown any interest in any of the words John had mentioned. Actually, she had not shown any interest in John at all. She had simply sat on the couch and stared as Sherlock paced back and forth, presumably gauging her reactions, or some other experiment-like procedure Sherlock had managed to convince himself would serve as a distraction to his imminent listlessness. Yeah, he was done.

"You can keep at it if you want Sherlock, but I've got better things to do than read to someone who is not even aware I am in the same room. I am going out." Announced John as he stood up from his comfortable chair and made for the door before Sherlock could argue and surely managed to somehow convince him otherwise.

* * *

John's walk was very relaxing indeed. He had not done much, but simply being away from the flat allowed him to forget all the stress from being cooped inside with his mad, mad friend and the young girl that now roomed with them. It wasn't that he didn't like her; he may not be the friendliest or necessarily a 'people-person' per say, but he was definitely a lot more that Sherlock; but he could not help to be frustrated by the fact that she seemed to cower from his presence and seek Sherlock for comfort. He definitely was not jealous. In no way or fashion whatsoever did he want to be constantly assaulted by the slim young lady whenever she felt threatened. He had heard Sherlock draw his breath in enough times to know that he did not want to have his breath taken away as well, but he could not shake the feeling off completely.

The poor girl had probably gone through so much in her few years of life and had a messed up sense of friendliness, and clearly mistook Sherlock's disgust for concern. The same for him. She obviously thought him ready to attack her at any moment as he was constantly worrying over her and following her movements to make sure she was well taken care of. Not to say, that he had been the one to cure her after that small incident with Sherlock's experimental equipment. She had felt pain and clearly thought John to be the cause of it, not the bleeding wound he was nursing in her hand.

That would make sense. John was a doctor, not a psychologist, but even then he understood enough of the workings of the human psyche to know that if she had some sort of painful experience in her past, any kind of pain could make her relive it. In this case, the burn of alcohol on an open wound could have been enough, and therefore, now she associated John with the pain of her past, making him someone to be avoided. That however, did not solve the puzzle. There was still the question of where she came from. Not to think of what her name was, or what had happened to her that made her run.

Yes, Sherlock had described in much detail how she had escaped, all the climbing and all that, but where exactly in was she before she came to them, or Lestrade really. And speaking of Lestrade, why had he not called yet to check up on her. If it had been him that had entrusted both Sherlock and himself, but specially Sherlock, with the care of a fragile young woman he would be worried out of his wits. Which is exactly what John had done!

Oh he was an idiot! How could he have walked away leaving the poor girl all alone with Sherlock. Just think of all the possible havoc that could have transpired in the few minutes he was gone! That was definitely not a comforting thought at all and he was supposed to have relaxed in his walk.

He was going back, and now!

* * *

John was walking as fast as his legs would carry him to 221B Baker Street but they could not walk fast enough. His only consolation was that Sherlock had yet to call him with terrible news. It was not much a consolation really, as who knew what Sherlock would consider dire enough for John to be informed. But at least one thing was for sure, she was still alive. Even Sherlock would deem it necessary to inform John if something as tragic as that had happened in his absence.

What worried John was not that but the 'minor' things Sherlock could have overlooked. All kinds of things raced through John's mind, from explosions to verbal rows that lead her to walk away. Well, he wasn't quite sure how that last one would work since it would require for the girl to actually speak to Sherlock, but he would not put it past Sherlock to somehow have a silent argument with the poor girl.

* * *

"Oh John, you are back." Said Sherlock as soon as John crossed the door. There was something about the manner in which he was relaxing in the chair and the clearly fake smile plastered on his face that confirmed John's worst suspicions. Something had happened.

"Where is the girl Sherlock?" Even though John knew that Sherlock would take offence at being interrogated so soon, he truly wanted to get an answer before it was too late and he was then chosen to deliver the painful news to Lestrade. Oh, he could just imagine the shocked look on Lestrade's face as he realized that he had left both Sherlock and the girl alone without any adult supervision.

"For God's sake John! No, I have not murdered her if that's what has got you so worried. She's upstairs. Although I would not recommend that you go to your room John." There it was again, the fake smile and nonchalant lean into the chair. This was bad, so bad.

Obviously, after such 'warning' John rushed to his room. Sherlock followed mere seconds after.

"I told you not to come" Exclaimed Sherlock after John had opened the door and both were slapped in the face by the state of John's room, or what was left of it at least. Papers that he carefully kept in his desk were thrown about with the out-most carelessness. Clothes piled in the floor, creating a mess that John never thought possible. His bed was shifted as if someone had lifted it and simply doped it back in place. The pillows were also on the floor as they must have rolled off the bed. The sheets were askew and bunched up as if they had been pulled. Pencils cluttered the desk and bed, along with a few other desk items. Several pens were broken and the ink was spilled in big puddles in the floor and desk.

It was all too much for John to take in and so he simply stood at the door attempting to control his anger, for there was no question who had done it. How the girl had something to do with it, he had no idea, as she had recently walked from some area in the flat and peeked into the room from behind Sherlock's back.

"What on earth happened here Sherlock?" John managed to ask through extremely hard gritted teeth. He was sure that at least one of three things would happen in the next several seconds if Sherlock did not have some groundbreaking explanation as to what went on in his room. One, his head would explode from the painful pounding it was currently enduring. Two, his teeth would fall out as he was currently gritting them with such a force to not let a single insult come out his mouth and be directed at any of the other occupants in his room. Or three, he would simply let it all go and murder Sherlock right then and there on the spot.

"Well the answer is quite simple John. You left, we needed some sort of entertainment. Your room was available. Therefore…"

John did not get to hear the end of that 'groundbreaking' explanation as he pounding in his head and buzzing in his ears increased to maximum level. One thing was for sure. It was to be option number three.


	12. Clearing up the mess

Oh yes, murder definitely sounded like an extremely good solution right now. Afterall, Sherlock himself had had the guts to admit it to his face; he, or rather they, had trespassed into his space, his room, and deliberately turned it upside down.

"Really John. You truly think that I would simply mess up your room for no apparent reason? Of course not! I am a high functioning sociopath John, not a child! Now, look John, really look." Nearly shouted Sherlock as he positioned himself in front of John's door. "What do you see?"

"A mess, Sherlock, I see a mess" John could not really help being as exasperated as he was right now. Even if Sherlock did have a very valid point, which is that Sherlock always has a very calculated and mostly acceptable reason for basically everything he did, he was irritated that once again he was kept in the dark and was obviously expected to clear up the mess.

"You are a doctor, an army doctor infact, and yet you do not see what is in front of you." Said Sherlock. "Sometimes I wonder how on earth you can tell you patient's head from their…"

"Alright, no need for swearing Sherlock. I've got it." Intervened John.

"Foot John, I was going to say foot, but since you've got it I must not go on then." Claimed Sherlock as he made as if to leave the threshold to John's room.

"Just quit it would you Sherlock, we both know you are dying to tell me what this mess" pronounced John as he widely gestured to the littered floor "is. So please" John waved his hand indicating for Sherlock to go ahead.

All Sherlock did however was narrow his eyes at John and studying him for a few minutes. It was almost as if he was deciding what to do next, whether to help John at all or give up on the hope that one day he might see the world like he did. "What do you see John?" said Sherlock after he had placed himself slightly behind John and lowered his face to John's height, something that John found greatly annoying at the moment but decided was not worth arguing about right now. "Is there a pattern John, or is it random" Sherlock had switched to John's other side but continued to stare at the scene before them as if attempting to see it from John's perspective.

If John was being really honest he could not see anything beyond a mess. It was clear however that that was not all there was to it, otherwise Sherlock would never had asked. H had mentioned a pattern, and therefore there must be one. Whether John would be able to find it fast enough for Sherlock, well, the odds were quite low.

"Do you see the way the clothes are separated from each other John? Look at the shapes they create. Two bodies were found this morning. Bled to death. No suspects yet, nothing. Was on the paper this morning and Lestrade called while you were away. He sent me the photos and information. I opened it on your computer. She must have seen it and she's solved it, John. She solved the case."

"Hold on." Said John as he attempted to both process the information been thrown at him. "How do we know she solved the case? And what does that have to do with the mess in my room?"

"It is quite simple. First we got the facts." Sherlock began to speak with an air of frustration at John's lack of vision and the wish to impress him. "Two bodies were found. The two piles of clothes by the door." He quickly took a step into the room and pointed an accusatory finger at the pile of clothing between the left wall in John's room and the bed. "The clothes are enough to dress two people." He spun once again and pointed at the spot by the desk directly in front of the bed. "The ink, they bled to death. First place I saw the case, the paper. Therefore the piles of paper on the floor. Then there was the text from Lestrade. She found the badge I nicked form him a while ago. Then the pictures on the computer. The charger. She wanted to make sure we understood what case she was referring to." Sherlock turned to face John once again and gestured widely. "Her information was too pressing. Could not let it go nor could she simply wait for me to solve it. She wanted to do it herself. And she did." He continued the explanation along with the straight pointed finger allowing John to clearly identify the items Sherlock was referring to and picture the link to the case. "The piles of clothes are all missing the shoes. Where did they go. They were not taken at the time of the murder, they were taken later. The bed is shifted, but the angle at which the sheets are falling is different from the original movement. The killer went back. The shoes are underneath the bed. The killer took the shoes on his second trip to the crime scene. Why the shoes? What is so important about them? One of the shoes underneath the bed has mud on the sole. The victims were not attacked at the crime scene they were taken there. The killer went back because the shoes would contain evidence of where they were attacked. Mud. He would be found out. What was his mistake? They always make a mistake. There is one shoe covered in mud over the spilled ink. His own footprints. The dust particles in his own shoes must be imprinted on the ground around the bodies. We analyze it and find the place of the original attack and our killer. We find your fourth shoe." Said Sherlock as he pulled out said shoe from behind his back.


	13. The other shoe

As John's brain attempted to process all the information Sherlock had mercilessly thrown at him, his feet took him down to his favorite chair in the living room. Surprisingly, both Sherlock and the girl followed him. Sherlock simply stared at John with the air of someone who is expecting something big and exciting to happen at any second. The girl on the other hand, had followed Sherlock and sat next to him in the larger couch, observing him as though she wished to learn everything possible about the detective.

 _Bled to death. Missing shoe. Killer went back. Taken there. We find your fourth shoe._

Little excerpts from Sherlock's explanation continued to circulate John's mind over and over again as he tried to put together the meaning behind both the layout of the possessions in his room and the items themselves. Yet, no matter how much he tried, all the pieces would not fit together. When Sherlock had said it, he had been able to somewhat follow along as he usually did whenever his flatmate would slow down the tiniest bit and share a portion of his mind with John. This time however, even after the 'simple' explanation as Sherlock liked to call it, it wasn't making much sense.

"Alright" started John as his hand crept up and pressed his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time. "Let me see if I got this right, because I am honestly having a very hard time putting my mind around the fact that the mess in my room is more than just a mess." The pounding in his head was making his voice and words stronger than he intended them to be, yet at the same time, he felt as though he was completely justified for doing it. Taking a small breath and using his hand; which now rested tightly underneath his chin; to gesture lightly, he began again. " The girl, this quiet, shy girl, seating right next to you, who we thought unable to speak or read, and has shown little to no interest in learning to do so, managed to somehow read not only the paper, but a text, from Lestrade, and to see the pictures you saw, on my computer, figured out it was a case you were working on, solved it, and decided that to let you know she had done it, she would, use my room, to create some kind of scene that only you would understand, destroying half of the things I own, and in order for you to know who the murderer is, set up a scavenger hunt through the flat for my shoe?"

"Eh" said Sherlock as he moved his head in the worldwide gesture fo more or less. "That about sums it up. Yeah."

With a big sigh and an annoyed look in Sherlock's direction, John responded. " I do not know if it is crazier that you may be able to make me believe this is true or the fact that this actually happened." Another sigh and a heavy silent pause latter John said, "Alright. So you've found the shoe, so the case is solved. What now? Have you told Lestrade?..."

"No, John, the case is not solved. This," said Sherlock as presented John's shoe to his rightful owner. "is a left shoe. The one upstairs, was also a left shoe. Which means…"

"The two right shoes are missing" said John slowly as he worked the information out in his heavily clouded head. "They are hidden somewhere in the flat"

"Exactly!" exclaimed Sherlock, obviously thrilled that John had managed to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"But if there are two shoes, what does that mean?" Well, so much for finishing the puzzle.

"That my dear doctor, is still a mystery."

* * *

I know this is a very short chapter. I am sorry. I just felt like it needed to be a chapter on its own instead of merging it with another one. Plus I really needed my sleep back.

Hopefully, this helps a little bit, as it did John, to work through all that Sherlock said in his usual Sherlock way in the last chapter.

I would love it if all the readers out there could leave a comment below to let me know what you think of the story, if there is anything that you fee hasn't been answered completely, some kind of direction that you would like the story to go in, or if you just want to say hi.

As always, I want to thank all of you that have stuck to the story and that continue reading. Just seeing the number of views rise day by day motivates me to write more. I am sure I would write even faster with you guy's comments P


	14. The scavenger hunt

Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

* * *

For the duration of the evening Sherlock alternated between impatiently sitting at the couch and quickly walking about the flat. It was quite obvious that he was getting extremely frustrated but John did not know what to do anymore.

Sherlock had claimed that the case was solved, not only had the girl done it but he had as well. Yet, he refused to let Lestrade know the result. John of course had called Lestrade and announced the news in an attempt to force Sherlock to spill the big secret to Lestrade and move on back to attempting to figure out what to do with the poor girl. His plan had of course backfired. The only thing that had happened was a big row between Sherlock and Lestrade. Sherlock had flat out refused to say anything until he found the hidden shoes. Lestrade, and even John had done so in his behalf, argued that he could still find the shoes after the murderer was caught, no one would think less of him if he found the shoes at a later date.

Obviously that had not gone very well with the detective, and Sherlock being Sherlock had resulted to manhandle Lestrade out of their flat. John clearly intervened and calmly showed Lestrade the door along with promising to get Sherlock to talk sooner than latter. Now he was not so sure he was going to be able to keep up his side of the bargain.

It was about eleven at night now and John continued to pretend to read a book in order to keep an eye on Sherlock and ensure he did not end up killing the girl for hiding the shoes so well. So far, all Sherlock had been able to find was bits of dried up mud. What angered Sherlock more, John was not so sure. Every time Sherlock announced that he had figured out the hiding place he would trudge to wherever it was; John was never told; only to come back empty handed. Well almost. Everytime, he brought that bit of mud, only to have the pleasure of dramatically crumbling it in front of the girl's face.

John was unsure of what to do besides sporadically brush off the mud off the coffee table. It was clear that Sherlock was extremely frustrated by the scavenger hunt the girl had set up for him. How she had managed to do it was still a mystery to John. He had attempted many times to hide Sherlock's 'thinking' aids only to have him walk into the room and announce the hiding spot and berate John for his lack of intelligence and creativity. She on the other hand, had managed to keep two objects hidden for a good ten hours.

As Sherlock continued to pace in front of the sofa with his hands firmly placed beneath his chin John began to succumb to the rhythmic pacing and the increasing weight of his eyelids.

* * *

A knock on the door along with Sherlock's scream of "John! Door!" woke John from his slightly uncomfortable slumber. Of course, he who had been asleep was supposed to get the door while Sherlock who was currently wrapped in his robe and sitting on the ground could not be bothered to move.

John opened the door to reveal a fresh looking Lestrade, who was very contrasting with the other occupants of the room. The girl was now curled up in a tight ball with her head lightly resting on the couch's arm. Her eyes were closed and her breathing even making her the only sleeping person. John had a big imprint on his cheek from where he had rested his head against his hand and his clothes were wrinkled from sleeping while seating. Sherlock was dressed in his pajamas and wrapped in in his robe, seating in a pretzel on the floor, with his elbows resting on the coffee table and his hands pressing against his temples. His head was cast downwards with his eyes focused solely on the small pile of muck he had built up as John sleept.

"Oh, look's like you all had a great night sleep" aid Lestrade as soon as he walked in, immediately followed by a small sarcastic snort from John. "I'm glad I caught you all well rested because I need something"

"I am not telling you what happened on the case." Interrupted Sherlock without even looking up. "I have not found the shoes yet. And I am not talking to you, so good day" That last part was said with a wave of his hand indicating the door. During their argument the night before Sherlock had refused to talk about the case to Lestrade for as long as it took him to find the shoes. John had been hoping that Sherlock would not keep his word as it was imperative that Lestrade knew who the murderer wa so Scotland Yard could apprehend him. Clearly the detective was more stubborn than John gave him credit for.

With one last look in John's direction, Lestrade took a step towards Sherlock.

"You know Sherlock," said Lestrade, "I hate to think it, but I am finding it hard to believe that you've solved the case"

That of course got Sherlock's attention who stood up with inhuman speed, or at least faster than John would think possible after not sleeping for a whole night.

"Of course I solved it!" Said Sherlock with clear indignation

"I am sure you did," explained Lestrade; John had to admit, he was a bit impressed with the easiness Lestrade was pulling off the plan, "it is just that, since you will not tell me, and every time I come over to ask about the case you are looking for those shoes. It almost looks as if you were attempting to find the answer by finding the shoes."

"That is not what I am doing at all!" Screamed Sherlock while still looking in the direction Lestrade was standing in, however he immediately turned to John and narrowed his eyes the slightest bit. "And I know what you are attempting to do Lestrade, and believe me when I tell you it will not work. Even if you wanted to you would never be smart enough to trick me into spilling out the solution to the case. Not even Moriarty was able to get anything out of me. Not even Mycroft. "

" I am not trying to trick you!" Defended Lestrade

"Oh please!" Exclaimed Sherlock, "John is as guilty as if he had committed the murder himself, and you Lestrade, I can see right through the pretense. You want the answer as much as I want to find those shoes"

"Alright," breathed Lestrade, "you are right. I was attempting to trick you. I am sorry Sherlock"

Lestrade turned once again and meet with John, who immediately began to walk with him to show him to the door.

" Good day John." said Lestrade with the air of someone whose dreams had just been crushed, "I supposed that I will just tell them to print Andersen's theory then" he continued in a softer voice, soft enough to imply a conversation between John and himself.

"Andersen!" Roared Sherlock as John held the door open for Lestrade. "That idiot knows absolutely nothing about science, much less the solution to this case. Have Molly analyze some dirt samples from around the area the two bodies were found, near the calf of the legs of the victims, that's where he stood to take their shoes off. You will be able to find the same dirt at the house of their training partner. Fencing partner. Both the victims have bruising patterns acquired from constant fencing practice. Why did he murder his friends? They were not really friends, practice was just a way he could keep a close eye on them. Why them? Probably some feud they had when they were younger. Why did he take the shoes? They went for a walk outside his house. Lured them there by telling them they were going to talk about improving their skills. Took them to some muddy area covered in trees. A river runs by his house so the mud would carry some minerals found in the water. Could not keep the bodies at his house so he took them to where you and your idiot team found them"


	15. Revelation

Enjoy!

* * *

All Lestrade was able to say before Sherlock grunted in frustration was "Around their calves you said?". Anything else that he may have wanted to express was cut off short by Sherlock's immediate scream of "Out! Out! Now!" along with some wild gesturing in the direction of the detective.

It was obvious to John that Sherlock was quite upset for having revealed such information when he had promised not to do so until the missing shoes were found. John however, could not help feeling enormously relieved that Lestrade had the necessary information to proceed with the case. He was all for finding his shoes, after all it meant he had 2 incomplete pairs, but he had to agree with the fact that catching a murdered may be more important in this case.

Soon after Lestrade left, or was manually removed from their flat, Sherlock had done nothing more than sulk. John could really find no other words to describe what the detective was doing other than sulking. He had stormed about the flat, slammed his door shut only to come back out soon after going in, and flung himself on top of the couch. That one had however taken John a bit by surprise. It wasn't so much the fact that Sherlock had thrown himself into the couch in an attempt to gain pitty out of John; he had seen that plenty of times as it occurred every time Sherlock claimed to be bored by the lack of interesting cases to solve; but the fact that he had done it in a different fashion. Instead of simply walking up to said piece of furniture and wrapping himself up in his robe as he fell onto the couch, with no care whatsoever for who or what was occupying said place before; John had had the frightful experience of having been reading the newspaper when Sherlock decided to 'lay' on the couch and so simply threw himself down, ignoring the fact that John was sitting there, and crushing him in the process until he managed to scoot from under the detective; Sherlock went up to the couch and slid into the unoccupied space. The girl had now woken up, thanks to that loud door slamming, but continued to be curled up on the couch. Her feet were close to her body, making enough room for another companion, which Sherlock took as the perfect invitation to do just that.

Why Sherlock had taken enough consideration to not squish the girl, John was not sure. Not did he liked the slight uneasiness he felt about the whole situation.

He knew that for some reason Sherlock, even if he was not willing to admit it, had taken to the girl. Afterall, he had argued that they needed to keep her at their flat. He most definitely did not feel jealous in any way or fashion, because it would be utterly ridiculous of him to be jealous of a girl who could not seem to communicate in any way or form. And yet, he supposed it was only natural of him to feel slightly uneasy when up to a few days ago he had been the detective's only friend. Nothing said however, that Sherlock thought of the girl as a friend. The fact that he had not crushed her while throwing himself on the couch, actually meant that he was not comfortable. Obviously, what he was feeling was a reaction to both Sherlock's and the girl's anxiety at being in an uncomfortable situation. That was it. That had to be it…

* * *

As noon, and therefore lunch time, approached, John began to get anxious once again. It was a fact that Sherlock often skipped meals while working on a case. He would not sleep either, no matter how much John tried to push him to do so. Nonetheless, he was sure that it would not be good for either him nor the girl to skip any of those activities. True they had slept a few hours last night, and thanks to Mrs. Hudson's good care, they had eaten their necessary meals during the previous days. But it was time to eat once again, and the apprehension came rushing back to him. He was a doctor after all. Sherlock would surely refuse to ingest anything at all, which would in turn make the girl not want to eat either, and as a caring human being he could not allow that to happen. Sherlock of course would not care at all if the girl ate or starved to death, but he would not stand for it. Which meant he would have to somehow force Sherlock to at least pretend to eat a bit.

Attempting to postpone any confrontations for as long as possible, John simply walked to the kitchen and began rummaging through their leftover food, pulling out whatever was eatable and placing it on the kitchen counter. John supposed that the best way to go about this little issue would be to simply move the food to a 'neutral' place. If John placed the food on the dining table, Sherlock, and in turn the girl, would be given plenty of opportunity to refuse, yet, if he placed the food on the small coffee table they would not have any option at all. Afterall, they were both currently sitting there.

Comforted by the plan he had devised, John armed himself with a tray of food and started on the small trek from the kitchen to the living room.

As soon as John was placing the food on the table, Sherlock turned to look at the contents of the tray, followed by the typical narrowed look of the detective, reserved for whenever he thought people were up to something. Which in this case John thought was well deserved, but feigned ignorance just the same and sat in his chair once again.

* * *

Lunch was a quiet affair. John refused to say much in fear that he would end up begging Sherlock to eat something. It was quite obvious Sherlock knew exactly what was happening though. After a few times in which John had placed some of the food on a plate and casually set it near the couch's side of the table, Sherlock turned around once more, accompanied by a long and heavy sigh and a small eye roll; clearly telling John that he, the great detective, had figured out what the whole act was about and found it absolutely patronizing of John to even believe for a second that he would eat any of the food, and to please stop the insulting act to his intelligence. John however, decided to ignore the whole lot and simply continued munching on his own food.

Apparently that was all it took.

As he ate, the girl continued to send shy glances at John, even going as far as occasionally discretely licking the inside of her lips, in a clear show of her growing hunger. The small act would have been lost on anyone not observing the girl with the utmost care , so obviously Sherlock was able to tell it happened with his eyes closed and his back turned the other way.

Once again, he turned to face the table, but this time, instead of glaring at John, his eyes set on the girl sitting in front of him, as now Sherlock had stretched himself so far that the poor girl had ended up sitting at the edge of the sofa's cushion with Sherlock's legs behind her.

After a few seconds of staring at the side of the girl's face, Sherlock reached over, picked up the plate that had been resting on the table and took a small bite of the contents. Ofcourse, not without a sneer accompanied with the classic gesture to indicate "There!".

Immediately after that, the spell was lifted and the girl shyly moved to pick up the plate, all the while glancing at Sherlock's turning back every few seconds, and began to eat, while slowly retreating further back into the sofa.

* * *

After lunch, John took all the dishes and remaining food to the kitchen. While he was busy taking care of the used utensils, Sherlock stood up from his spot on the sofa and began to play the violin, making John look up from the foamy water. It was a new composition, which struck John as weird, as Sherlock reserved those for when he was attempting to solve a particularly hard case. But what struck John as even more strange was when the girl suddenly stood up. Sherlock did not even turn around or stoped playing the violin, which only increased John's curiosity over the matter. He even attempted to get Sherlock to answer the question, but said detective only ignored him as well and carried on as if nothing was happening around him.

No sooner that John hadleft the kitchen to go in search of the girl, fearing that she had once again taken to destroying his room, the girl came back of her own accord. She was hiding something behind her, put John's position did not allow him to see what it was, and before he had time to even go around to get a better viewing angle, she was back at the sofa.

It was only then that Sherlock stopped playing the violin. That half-note's ring lingering in the air. John did not dare breath in anticipation.

A wide smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face as he turned around to face the returning girl, and with great joy he announced, "The shoes".


	16. Proving a point

Enjoy!

* * *

"So this is it then?" asked John, who was currently sitting in his chair making sense of what had just occurred moments ago. His hands clapped his legs. "She gave them up!"

"Oh, yes, she did!" answered Sherlock as he continued to play the new melody he had so abruptly stopped a few minutes before.

"But what now then?" continued John.

"About what?" At this point Sherlock had finally turned around to face John, however, the violin kept on being played.

"Well, you told Lestrade the answer to the case well before the shoes were found, the only thing that was left to do was to find them, and now we have them. What do we do now?"

"Tell Lestrade" answered Sherlock matter-of-factly

"About the shoes?" questioned John very confused with the direction the conversation was going in.

"What about them?" said Sherlock, clearly already having moved on to a more interesting topic, as all John was able to see of the detective was his back.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John. His patience was rapidly diminishing, so taking a calming breath he stated: "Are we telling Lestrade that we found them?"

"Why would we do that?" Sherlock was most definitely getting on John's neves. It was one of the things that John hated the most. Sherlock would often play clueless whenever he did not want to admit to something, but it annoyed John greatly. Whenever he was confused or ignorant of some amazing fact the detective had been able to deduce from someone, he got an enormous amount of attitude, as well as slightly berated by his flatmate, and yet, if he was willing to dig for some answers, Sherlock would make it absolutely impossible and insufferable for him to do anything at all, nonetheless he was meant to swallow it all without complaint and continue digging.

"Because you told him that we needed to find the shoes and we have them now." said John through gritted teeth.

"No, we never needed them." Although the eye roll was missing, the usual wave of dismissal was present in its full annoying splendor.

"But you refused to solve the case until they were found!" basically yelled John, having reached his limit.

"Indeed," was the short response the detective shot in John's direction.

"What do you mean indeed?," he could not believe it. Sherlock was… ugh! Absolutely infuriating. "There was a killer on the loose simply because you refused to share what that brain of yours told you…"

"My brain didn't find or tell me anything," interrupted Sherlock, finally stopping the screeching he was inflicting upon the poor violin. "I did John. I observed….

"And I could not care any less!" It was now John's turn to interrupt. He really had a lot of anger directed and created by the one person standing in front of him right now. "You told Lestrade we needed those shoes!

"Yes." So it was back to single word responses then...

"But we didn't need them" pointed out John once again.

"No." A calming breath was needed once again. For John, one of the most despicable traits Sherlock possessed, which the list was enormously long in John's opinion, was the fact that Sherlock often missed the extremely fine line between what was important in a case and what wasn't, specially when it involved the wellbeing of others.

"So all the time we wasted was for absolutely nothing!" A new record was set for the amount of frustration Sherlock could inflict upon John in a single evening.

"The time was not wasted John" pronounced Sherlock, getting excited once again. The violin was forgotten as is dangerously hung from his left hand and miraculously managed to stay out of the way as Sherlock walked over the coffee table, barely avoiding the objects on its top.

"Scotland Yard could've found the criminal long before they did, you…" John reminded him again.

"Of course they couldn't.!" Sherlock exclaimed while throwing his hands in the air accompanied by a small half circle on his heels, a clear sign of his annoyance at the realisation that John was not following. "They had absolutely no lead to go on. They needed me. But it was too easy. A point had to be proven. I had to set up clues so that she could follow…"

"Hold up a second, you had to set up clues? You hid the shoes?" Once again, the record was broken.

"Well, not exactly" The shake of his hand dismissing the point again.

"Not exactly?" John could not let this go just yet.

"I planted the idea in the girl's head. I took the shoes from your room. I had to find a way to show her what I wanted her to do. A bit later she caught on, and began to work on the little details herself." Exasperation was clear in Sherlock's voice.

"So she destroyed my room thanks to you?" Annoyance and disbelief in John's.

"Yes." Sherlock's motioning clearly stated that he was about to reveal to John the secret behind the last few days. "I gave her the necessary information, gave her an example. Gave her the idea. And then sat back to enjoy and watch her come to her own conclusions. Slowly, she began to understand what she had to do. She recreated the scene of the murder in your room. Used the things she found there."

"If you didn't need the shoes and you basically taught her what to do, why even bother with doing it in the first place? Why tell Lestrade that you needed to find the shoes? What was the point of it all?" John's minds was working hard to process all of the information, but there were still some answers he needed from his flatmate.

"The point John," quickly answered Sherlock, "was to make one. I only taught her to communicate. I showed her a way to tell us what she understood. She knew about the case. She understood it. I never told her to hide the shoes. I took those from your room before she could even know about them. I put them in a place in hopes that she would understand the little game we were playing and see what she would make of them. But she took them and hid them. She not only understood the game, she made her own set of rules. It was all about finding the shoes now, not about the scene in your room John. She was proving a point.

"And what was that?" questioned John.

"That not only does she understand us, but she is clever, more clever than we ever gave her credit for"

TBC...


	17. Shopping trip

Enjoy!

* * *

"Proving that she's…" John trailed off after starting the sentence with the air of someone who did not believe a single word being said. " So she's clever?"

"Well of course she is John!" answered Sherlock as his slight exasperation and happiness at once again having outsmarted John seeped into his voice. " And you say I'm the one that has no experience with the fair sex!. Just look at her!" This was said with as much of a condescending tone as the detective could muster, along with his outstretched hands to point at said girl only to immediately go to his hair into Sherlock's favorite sign to let John know he was proving to be much slower than a sloth sleeping. "Oh God! How can you be so slow? My brain would rot if I moved at such speed. Let's go over the facts shall we?" continued Sherlock as his hands uncovered his eyes and he began to slowly pace the area next to John's seat. "Who is she?"

"A girl" said John, pointing what he thought was pretty obvious by now.

"Yes! Of course she is a girl, but what do we know about her?" questioned the detective

"That, she escaped from somewhere underground, you said." Explained John with a bit of hesitation. "She came here because she ran into Lestrade, who she recognized from the telly, as well as us since she didn't run from us either. She had not been taught to talk and yet she managed to do it after hearing you say stop a few times. Which I suppose does mean she is clever"

"Yes, John, but what else?" exclaimed Sherlock. "Forget about the shoes, we already went over that. What do we know about her? Not about her past, but why is she here?"

"I thought you said it was coincidence" replied John a bit confused, "you said that she had run into Lestrade as a coincidence, she had merely stopped at one of the first houses she could, and did not run away because she recognized him"

"Yes, yes, but go deeper John." returned Sherlock, " She escaped from wherever she used to be. She ran away. She went to all the trouble of climbing up that slippery wall, but for what? Yes, you could argue it was because she was not been treated right, yes, but that it all she knew. All her life was like that. She knew no different. She was not kidnapped, someone in Scotland Yard would have recognized her. She was born into that life. But something made her realize that there was something wrong. But what? And what is keeping her here?"

"Well, it obviously is not me" claimed John in a whisper as he let a small puff of air out and raised his eyebrows.

"What? You, well of course it is not you!" bellowed Sherlock as he turned around to face John one again and dropped his hands from where they had resided below his chin mere seconds ago. And then realisation dawned upon his face. "Oh, you mean because she does not like you?"

A small grimace was all John was able to respond with at first, but then he felt the need to clarify, as Sherlock, even as smart as he was, could be quite daft about things like that. "It was a joke Sherlock, or it was intended to be one"

"Sentiment?" questioned Sherlock.

"Yes, well…" sighed John.

"Have you checked her hand recently?" said Sherlock after what appeared to be a long pause. "Doctor"

"The cut? No I can't say I have, but I suppose it would be a good idea to do it" responded John as he immediately stood from his chair and began the small trek to the sofa. After carefully calculating the girl's response to his advancing; she abruptly sat up from her resting position upon the sofa; the doctor shot a meaningful glance at the detective. " A little help perhaps"

Sherlock of course looked as if John had just asked him to give up his chemistry equipment. The pain was more than evident in the detective's face, but something about the way in which the girl had sat up so abruptly, and stole quick frightened glances at him, made his expression relax just the tiniest bit. Indubitably Sherlock could not do without the dramatics, and left a long puff of air put before stomping over the coffee table and setting himself on its top. Not even a second after, he dove for the girl's hand and pulled it towards himself. The long fingers holding the small wrist were surprisingly gentle, even if firm.

With a small flourish of his hand, Sherlock lifted the tape securely holding the gauze in place and took the whole thing off, exposing the slightly reddened skin. The place where she had burned her hand was not visible anymore. The cut was well on its path to healing properly. The skin was attempting to close the wound, leaving just a faint red tint around the affected area. No doubt the wound would have to be redressed a few more times in order to give enough time for the cut to properly close before removing the gauze for good, but it all appeared to be in order.

"Alright, what is the diagnostic doctor?" Sherlock broke the silence that had fallen over the current occupants in the living room.

"You know as well as I do Sherlock that…" trailed of John as he found Sherlock staring straight at him while still holding unto the girl's wrist. " You are not talking about the cut are you?"

All the response John was able to get was a forced sad pout and a shake of the head in the negative.

"Alright" breathed John as he stood straight once again. "She looks pretty healthy, considering what we know of her previous condition. She appears to be heavily traumatized and easily reminded of that trauma by anyone that may approach her. Well, anyone but you." This he said with a small tilt of his head to indicate the detective currently waiting for the vital information John was supposed to get to all on his own. "She… she likes you. In fact she searches for you. If she becomes agitated, she is somehow calmed by your presence… Don't ask me why though." continued John as he gave a little laugh at his own deductions and small jab at his flatmate. "She becomes frightened by physical contact or even proximity by anyone of any gender, and yet she allows you to force her hand away from her body without even flinching. To look at her wound. It looks to me as though…"

"Get your coat!" John was not able to finish his 'deductions' since Sherlock suddenly stood up, throwing the girl's hand back and her as he made such a claim.

"My coat?" John was extremely confused with where this was going. "Why? What are we doing?"

"We are going shopping" replied Sherlock matter-of-factly

* * *

To say that he had not been extremely surprised when Sherlock announced that they were going shopping would be a terrible lie. Since when did Sherlock do something so 'mundane' as go shopping? Of course John had the little nagging sensation that said trip would inevitably turn out to be disastrous as the detective was sure to turn it into an experiment of some kind, however, he never could have imagined it would play out quite like it did.

A few seconds after the shock had passed; partly due to Sherlock's impatient glare; John sprung into action and got Sherlock to put a new bandage on the poor girl's hand, and grabbing a coat for both the girl and himself he started towards the door, where he was intercepted by his flatmate who, with an air of eagerness, took the coat from his arms and gracefully placed it over the slightly confused young woman. The trio made their way downstairs with John leading the line quite bothered with what Sherlock was planning, the girl behind him looking back at the detective every few seconds as if to make sure he was still following, and Sherlock in the back, clearly making sure no member of the trio was left behind, or more likely, attempted to go back to the flat.

Once in the street, the three of them crammed into the small interior of a cab in a very similar fashion to the time they had taken the girl home with them, albeit all of them were much more relaxed, which only meant Sherlock was definitely planning something. And plan he did.

Still in a slightly astonished state, John carefully followed the detective as he did a very good job of pretending to shop. They had stopped at the closest store to them, and Sherlock had immediately sprung from the cab and began to walk; it was definitely a lot closer to running; through the aisles. All the while he would pick things up and push them into John's arms. Why on earth did they need a new pencil holder?

It did not take too long for John to not be able to hold on to anything else without dropping one of the many items in his arms, and before John was able to turn around to go fetch a basket, Sherlock had already picked another item, the only difference was that this time instead of shoving it in John's direction, he turned towards the girl. She simply looked at Sherlock as if attempting to decipher what he meant by shoving it in her direction, but a few seconds after, Sherlock took both the girl's hands and wrapped them around a glass jar. Quickly making sure her hold was secure, he stood straight again and turned to peruse the items in front of him again. Of course, by this time, John had had enough, and simply announced he was going to get that basket and left before the detective could even utter a word.

And then it happened.

Making a short trip of fetching the funny basket from the shop, John went back to where he had left both Sherlock and the girl mere seconds ago, only to find the aisle empty. They could have simply moved to the next aisle, John reasoned with himself, attempting to push down the panic beginning to form in him. Before he could even reach the third aisle to the left of where he had left them both, a hand pulled him by the back of his shirt's collar and roughly managed to bring him to where Sherlock was standing. Of course John began to straighten his shirt while adding an indignated and slightly angry "Sherlock!" only to be forcefully shushed and a hand to be lifted to point at a small opening between some of the products in the aisles and through which, a few aisles across the girl was standing .

Noticing the anger radiating from him Sherlock quickly explained to John that he had purposely left the girl in that spot and quietly slipped out without her noticing; a task which was obviously not easy, given she would not stop scrutinizing him; so that they could observe her behavior from a distance and her reaction to being abandoned by the people she had begun to trust. Naturally, John fumed with such confession. Looking back at it, he could not deny that he could expect something such as that to happen at any time with Sherlock involved, but some part of him still held to some glimmer of hope that the detective would begin to understand how absolutely heartless and idiotic it was for someone to perform such a cruelty, but at the time, all he could focus on were both his wish to strangle his flatmate for doing such a thing and to go rescue the girl and take her home. As soon as John put the basket he continued to hold down and took a step in the direction of the girl, Sherlock took him by the arm and pulled him backwards once again, and with no other choice, they watched.

The girl was clearly beginning to panic. Her breathing had become more erratic and hard. She looked at her hands, and if noticing for the first time that she was indeed holding something. She opened her hands, letting the glass jar drop and shatter on the ground. The commotion quickly brought a store assistant to look into what had been broken, and spotting the agitated young woman, the assistant approached. A few people began to look into the aisle as well, as now small whimpers began to com out her mouth. Noticing how anxious the girl was, a few people and the assistant attempted to talk to her, a feat that became nearly impossible as the girl began to back away from the onlookers, only managing to run into the shelves behind her, forcing more items to fall and shatter on the ground.

It was then that John had enough, and saying so he pulled free of the detective's grasp; who did not put much resistance to such an act; and immediately began to walk in the girl's direction. Surprisingly, Sherlock followed a few steps behind. As soon as she spotted both Sherlock and John approaching her, she began to push those surrounding her, and ran straight into John's arms, surprising him enormously and eliciting a soft cough from behind him. John immediately wrapped his arms around the now sobbing girl happy to give any comfort he could, and before he could do anything about it, Sherlock happily announced his experiment had worked to perfection. That of course caused several people to turn angry stares at them and repeat: "Experiment?", and realizing Sherlock was more than ready to triumphantly announce what was the intent behind his 'experiment' John explained: "What he means to say, is, that, we thought she had walked out on us. We turned around for a second and she was gone. We are glad she is fine" and offered his most sincere fake smile.

As everyone reluctantly returned to their shopping and gave them as many weird and annoyed looks as they could fit in the time it took them to get back to their baskets, Sherlock announced: "You do realize, John, we were never going to take any of the items in the basket"

* * *

After everything that had been broken was paid for, all three of them had rushed out of the store. John continued to hold the poor girl while Sherlock looked as if nothing had happened.

Once back in the cab John could not help sending Sherlock annoyed glances as he attempted to understand what the man had been thinking. The poor girl was still holding onto him. She was no longer crying however now an then a soft sob would escape her lips as she attempted to understand what had 's musing was interrupted when Sherlock angrily claimed: " Oh please! You are quite pleased she is finally latching onto you and not me!" before turning to face the window and very decidedly turning his back in John.

* * *

Although it took a lot longer than John would have liked, they made it back to 221B Baker Street. Deciding to not speak to Sherlock until the girl had been take care of, John helped her clean up and, after a bit of hesitation, made up his mind to take her into Sherlock's room to sleep. Sherlock of course put up a bit of a fight as soon as he spotted John leading the shy girl into his room, however, realizing John was not in the mood to discuss the girl's sleeping arrangements at the time, he moodily threw himself down onto the couch.

Suppressing his yearn to throttle the detective for causing the girl so much distress when she did not deserve to be the focus of Sherlock's experiments, John decided to go to sleep as well and leave any conversation until the following morning, in hopes that he would be calm enough and not attempt to jump at his flatmate's throat at any second.

* * *

Finding himself to be much better rested than he would have thought possible after last night's events, John determined that it would not do any good to postpone the inevitable row he would have with Sherlock as he attempted to explain why his little 'experiment' was most definitely not a good idea in any way or form.

Sherlock on his part, appeared to not have moved at all from the position John had seen the detective get into before he had walked to his own bed. The view he was currently getting of Sherlock's back was most definitely intended, so John supposed he could wait on talking to said man for a bit longer. After all he could occupy himself with taking care of the girl first.

After knocking a few times; there really was no reason why he should have been expecting an answer as there most definitely would not be one, but he was hoping to maybe hear a soft word that indicated that the girl was in a much better state than he had left her in the night before; he softly opened the door.

The room was empty.

The bed had most definitely been slept in as there were creases on some areas and the sheets were pulled to one side, however there was no sign whatsoever of the girl. Doing the only thing John could think of, he went directly to look under the bed; it was a bit childish but he was more than hopping the girl would be here; but there was no sign of the girl. The window was closed, so she most likely did not go out through there, but one could never know.

"She's gone Sherlock, I don't know…" said John as soon as he made it to the living room where Sherlock had remained.

"Yes, I am aware" interrupted said detective as he stood up from the couch and walked towards his room past John. "She left a few hours ago"

TBC...


	18. Clever, clever girl

First of all, I am terribly sorry for making you all wait for more than a year to get an update from me. As you can see I have not forgotten about the story or all of you, it's just that life got in the way; you all know how that is.

But here it is.

I hope you enjoy it, and makes you as excited as I am for the next chapter. Please let me know what you think or feel about it.

As always, thank you for reading.

…...

"Wait a second." exclaimed John before Sherlock was even able to take more than two steps in the direction of his room. "What do you mean? Why would you let her leave!?"

"I told you" came the response after a puff of air and a slightly dramatic drop of the detective's shoulders. "She is trying to prove a point and I am attempting to allow her to do so." That last sentence was accompanied by a long hand extended towards Sherlock's room reminding John of where he was intending to go.

"Now if you…" Sherlock trailed off before sharply turning around and walking towards their front door. He opened it in one quick movement to reveal seconds later a worried looking Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh Sherlock" she cried out.

"What is it Mrs. Hudson?" inquired Sherlock in what almost looked like genuine concern.

"It's dreadful." She cried once again, this time eyeing John, who immediately moved closer to both of the other occupants. "I think there's some in my flat. Now, I'm not sure but...well…"

That was all she needed to say for in that exact second both John and Sherlock sprung into action. Sherlock quickly sidestepped Mrs. Hudson before making his way down the stairs, not without shooting one small meaningful stare at John that made him wish his gun was not upstairs in his room. After quickly making sure Mrs. Hudson was not going to pass out due to fear nor giving enough time to allow Sherlock to get himself possibly killed for running headfirst into danger by himself, John followed down the stairs.

As soon as John entered the flat he didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Sure, he had only been in Mrs. Hudson's flat a few times, but everything appeared to be where it belonged. No sound was heard either.

Sherlock was standing a few steps ahead of John with his hand stretched back in a clear sign for John and Mrs. Hudson to stay put.

All three of them stayed silent. John looking for any sign of a break in. Sherlock probably doing million of deductions per second.

A couple of seconds went by. Neither appeared to breath. Each for their own reasons. Then a sound was heard. The closing of a drawer. Wood on wood. So soft that had they been talking it would've been missed.

Both Sherlock and John turned in the direction of the sound. John felt his heart beat rise in anticipation of the danger.

"It's the girl!" announced Sherlock before sprinting in the direction of the room.

John ran behind Sherlock. She was there? But how did she get in?

The room was empty, the only sign that someone had indeed been there was a bent corner of the carpet in front of the bed, an empty drawer; pertaining to Mrs. Hudson's dresser; now laying on the ground; and the open window letting enough air in to make the curtain blow into the room.

Sherlock's head immediately made its way through the open window, followed by a great majority of the detective's upper body, making John's hand twitch in yearning to grab the back of Sherlock's coat in an attempt to make him stay in the room. Of course no sooner than he had thought that, he saw Sherlock's body reenter the room, only to give the detective enough room to grab onto the inside of the window and swing his legs over the frame and to the exterior of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

True, the flat was on ground level, and therefore it was extremely improvable that Sherlock would fall and break something, but as the caring friend and doctor that he was, the sight of his roommate climbing over a window was slightly alarming. So obviously he could do nothing more than follow right after him, even if the front door was meters away.

As soon as he finished maneuvering his legs over the window, John found Sherlock heading to the busy street. Seconds later he stopped, contemplating and analysing the possible paths the girl could have taken in her attempt to 'prove a point' as Sherlock put it.

"Are you sure it was the girl there?" Said John, concerned about the fact that they may be abandoning Mrs. Hudson in her own flat along with whoever might have broken in if it was not the girl.

"Yes, of course I am sure!" was the response. "Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called later, to which dear Mrs. Hudson immediately attended.

"In the drawer, the one on the ground, what did it have on the inside?" Sherlock interrogated as he held onto her shoulders.

"I am not sure of everything that was in there Sherlock" said she.

"Think Mrs. Hudson. You must tell me exactly what was inside.'

"Well, I think there may have been some socks; oh," at this she turned her head in order to look at John instead of Sherlock, "and one of those things that you use to massage sore areas of your body, you should really try it sometime…"

"Mrs. Hudson" said Sherlock giving her a very soft squish of the shoulders in order to refocus her, "I need you to concentrate. What else was inside?"

"Oh Sherlock…" said she in an almost motherly fashion "There may have been a few old photos. I was looking at then the other day and may have stored them there"

"What kind of photos?" said the detective, interrupting Mrs. Hudson once again.

"Well, there were some of when I was younger. You know, with my parents and that sort of thing" said the landlady.

"Where were the photos taken? What was in the background?" urged Sherlock

"Most of them," answered Mrs. Hudson after a second or two, "are at my childhood home although there was one at a park I think. Or it looked like it, there is a fountain, oh!, and seating you can see in it."

At that second Sherlock straightened to his full height once again as he released Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. Oh, he had something. Adrenaline began to run through John's veins all over again as he waited in anticipation for the detective to share the new discovery with him. Name's of parks were circling his mind as he attempted to follow where Sherlock's mind was going.

"Alright, take care Mrs. Hudson" said Sherlock as he spun around in order to look at the landlady. "Come on then John, we must go find the girl."

….

John's legs ached from all the running they had done. His breath was coming in short. So far they had not visited a single park as John had predicted, instead they had done what John considered to be extremely bizzare.

Sherlock would exclaim every so often that they were extremely close, that the girl could not be too far away, but it was becoming hard for John to believe it. It was not that he didn't trust his friend, it was Sherlock after all, but they had left Mrs. Hudson back at her flat at least four hours ago, and he could see no sign of the girl anywhere whatsoever.

The moment they left Baker Street, Sherlock had taken them through a series of back streets, where there were barely any people at all. Once, Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked into a small puddle of dirty water before quickly putting his hand in and pulling out something out of the bottom. John had not been able to see it, but it had made Sherlock smile in a way that told him it was good. That they were closing in.

For some portions, after they had stopped here or there, and Sherlock had analysed or sniffed or simply touched some part of the street, they would run; sprint, in order to get to some other place. John was not told much besides to keep going. In a way he didn't need anything else. The thrill of the chase was exhilarating enough. But even that could pass very quickly after four hours with no real results.

After the last running episode, Sherlock came to a stop, turning in circles as if he had lost his way. After catching his breath for a second John stared at the detective from his crouched position, his hands resting on his knees and his head hanging a bit low. Sherlock on the other hand was fully erected, one of his hands slightly in a diagonal at his sides while the other dug for something inside the pocket of his coat.

"Alright Sherlock" began John, his breath still a bit short. "What on earth are we doing?"

"Finding the girl" Sherlock answered with a voice that showed how far away he was into his own thoughts.

"Yeah" John stood up. "It's been four hours so far and we got nothing. For all we know she could be back at our flat!"

"Of course not!" Sherlock immediately turned around, back in the present. "I told you she is proving a point. The only thing that going back to the flat would prove is that she can give up."

"Alright then" John straightened up. "Where is she?"

"The photos John! It was all in the photos! Like I told you, she is clever. She is leading us to where she came from. Her home."

"And how are we supposed to know where that is?" asked John slightly exasperated and still a bit out of breath.

"We must follow the clues." answered Sherlock in a tone that indicated John that he was once again missing what was obvious to his flatmate. "She is telling us as clear as she can."

"No" John said immediately with a wave of his hands in a slightly downward motion, almost like slicing away the statement made by the other man. "Clear would be to write down an address. Mental is to have us run around town for who knows how much longer just to see if we can find it."

"No John." Sherlock was now looking at John. The ghost of a small and slightly crooked smile on his lips. "Not mental. No. Clever."

….

Immediately after Sherlock's answer to John calling their scavenger hunt through town mental, they had once again sprung into action. Exactly like before. Running every so often, where Sherlock would claim that they were very close only to stop and recalculate.

So far, Sherlock had picked up four things. John had seen none.

When the fifth hour of running around town was nearing the end, they reached a particularly grim looking street. There was one lamp post, and it's light was very dim. It was about two in the afternoon, and there should not have been much need for artificial light, but the way the buildings were leaning towards each other, the remains of old grey smoke washed down a bit by the rain, and the broken windows in some of the buildings, made John wish the light was brighter.

"Is this it?" asked John, his stomach sinking in preparation for the answer.

Sherlock did not answer however, and simply walked towards what looked like a very weathered back door. When Sherlock pulled on the handle in order to open it, it broke; the only thing that gave way under Sherlock's hand. One look towards John, and they immediately moved in closer.

It took a couple of times of Sherlock pushing the door with his shoulder for it to finally open. They were immediately assaulted by the smell of rotted wood and mold. The floor creaked under their feet. Dust picked up with every step.

There were overturned chairs. The sofas had been destroyed by some kind of knife. Remains of plates and kitchen utensils were scattered all over the floor. What looked like a blanket was partly charred and stuffed into the kitchen sink. The single bedroom door was broken in half, with its lower half hanging precariously. Water had been left in the old tub, giving out a foul and putrid smell. But there was no sign of the girl.

"Alright. We are here. Where is she?" questioned John as he closed the door to the bathroom in order to attempt to seclude the foul smell from the tub.

"There is still something missing." began Sherlock, ignoring John's question. "She was kept underground." At this statement Sherlock spun around as if giving the whole place a once over for the first time.

"Perhaps there is a door" suggested John, pushing one of the broken chairs to the side in an attempt to survey the floorboards in search of some sort of trap door that would lead them underground.

"Of course there is a door" said Sherlock turning towards John. "They needed to be able to reach her somehow"

Before Sherlock was able to say anything else, John took a step towards the rest of the living room and continued:

"The floorboards creak." He took another step. "Maybe there is one that is loose, one that they pried open in order to reach the door."

At this, Sherlock turned towards the kitchen and pulled out the four items from his pocket. Using his left hand, he pushed all the old and broken things from the countertop to the ground in order to make room for the items he held in his right hand. John stopped his own investigation at this and moved towards the kitchen in order to get a look at what Sherlock was doing. He had placed a broken key, an old looking glass marble, a bit of metal that appeared to have something scratched on it, and a small stone, the kind that go in necklaces and that sort of thing.

Both of them stared at the objects for a few seconds.

As far as John was concerned there was no real relation between any of the objects. Perhaps, the metal could be part of the same necklace piece the stone belonged to, but to be honest it was a bit of a stretch; the metal was too simple and much too rough to be worn. Another theory that had passed John's mind was that they had two things made out of metal and two that were not. The stone and the marble were not made of the same materials but he supposed they had similar characteristics, and if he had to divide the four objects into two groups, he would most definitely group them together. But then what was that meant to tell them. That she liked jewelery? Or pretty things?

One look at Sherlock, and John could tell that the detective was also having a bit of an issue finding out what they were meant to do with the four items. Sherlock's hands were at his temples. His upper body leaning forward as he rested part of his forearms on the countertop. His eyes were closed.

After a few more seconds, John could not take it any longer. He did not want to waste any more time, so he picked up the broken key.

"Should we try finding a lock that fits?" John showed the key to Sherlock, who remained motionless. "She did give us a key." Still no movement from the detective. "We could try all the doors in here. Maybe even the one from the nearby buildings."

That is when Sherlock suddenly straightened back up. His hands dropped from his temples and collided with the countertop.

"The nearby buildings!" Sherlock cried out. This confused John a bit, who couldn't help wondering what was wrong with his friend. He had thought of checking the other buildings, which meant Sherlock should have as well. The next part confused him even more.

No one had time to say anything else, for as soon as Sherlock's last remark had been made, he walked out the door. In one swift movement he had picked up all of the four items and deposited them back in his pocket. All except one. The marble.

Both of them made their way out of the buildings and onto the street. There Sherlock dropped to his knees and placed his head as close as he could to the ground.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" asked John after a small chuckle escaped his lips at the sight before him.

"Did you notice how the floor creaked?" Sherlock was standing back up.

"Yes" John answered, not sure where this was going.

"Many old homes tended to have that issue because of an imperfection in the leveling of the ground." Sherlock was dusting his hands. "A slight inclination could cause it." He lifted his gloved hand and showed it to John. "The ground is also wet. Water must have gone in. Either the ground is not properly insulated or the ground is inclined. It is an old place. Most likely both. Now, water rushes to the low point. There is no sign of remaining water on the ground however. So this is not the low point then but the higher one."

"The marble" said John after a couple of seconds of processing the information he had just received.

"Exactly." The marble was now on displayed between Sherlock's thumb and forefinger. "We place it on the ground and follow where it leads."

"Right" hesitation was clear in John's voice. He could not help thinking that Sherlock was planning on leading them to some sort of river.

"The stones John." Sherlock immediately noticed John was no longer following and began the process of catching him up in his usual manner. "They were wet. Slippery stones. Molded over. Meaning some water got to them but not constant enough to hinder growth on them. The water was absorbed by the ground. That also means that the trap door they used to get in and out must be caked in mud. It would get washed away by rain and slowly cover it up. The only way to find the entrance then would be to stumble over it." Sherlock stopped, giving John a chance to digest his words. "But if we place the marble on the ground," Sherlock once again kneeled on the floor in front of John and surveyed it, "on a high point," he dropped it down almost directly in front of his eyes, and held it with his forefinger in place, "and allow it to follow the slope…"

"The ground would be leveled because of all the mud that has been washed down and collected on top of it." Continued John after Sherlock turned to look at him once more and signaled for him to do so. "When it slows down, that's where the door is." .

"Exactly!" He had gotten it right. At this, the detective allowed the marble to begin moving down the slope and stood up. Both men began walking. Always keeping an eye on the small glass ball that would lead them to all the answers they were searching for.


	19. Finding the girl at last

After what felt like hours of walking in silence; always keeping an eye on the tiny round piece of glass; the marble finally began to slow down. John was nearly ready to begin digging right there and then, eager to find the girl; which in his opinion was looking more and more mischievous than clever; and go back to his life. Sherlock on his part was not ready. He raised a hand, easily reading John's intentions, putting a cease to his eagerness. Apparently, they needed to walk a bit more.

In all honesty, they had not walked that much; it was still easy to see the grey scene from the building they had exited, even if it was at a considerable distance. Nonetheless, John was yearning for it to be over, particularly because there really was no warranty that the girl was going to be there. Sure Sherlock said she was, but there had been times where it almost looked like Sherlock was having some trouble following the clues. Mrs. Hudson's flat for example. Sherlock had sounded quite surprised. John was too. Partly because of Sherlock's reaction. It was clear that he, not a high functioning sociopath but a common human being, could have missed very careful movement downstairs while he was having a conversation with his flatmate, but it was a bit disconcerting that Sherlock had done so as well. Or perhaps, he had not missed it. Perhaps he had blocked it on purpose and his surprise was due to the fact that Mrs. Hudson had noticed. Or maybe…

A hand slammed slightly against John's chest. Sherlock had stopped. They were there. The door had to be directly below their feet.

Sherlock quickly scooped up the marble and dropped it back in his coat pocket. Almost in the same movement, he removed his gloves and bent down to examine the ground. A bony finger trusted forward and carefully caressed the damp ground. Just as suddenly, that same finger along with the other members of the same hand were forcefully pushed into the wet earth, leaving Sherlock with mud up to his wrist.

"I supposed we got some digging to do" suggested John, a bit despaired by the prospect and looked around in an attempt to find some sort of branch or anything they could use other than their bare hands. Sherlock simply looked at him while he moved his hand just the slightest bit. Before John was able to ask what he was doing, Sherlock stood up as far as his hand underground would let him, walked around towards John in his half-crouched position, and in one movement pulled the trap door open. Mud immediately fell into the new opening.

Sherlock went to the entrance right foot carefully but quickly found a sort of ladder and made his way down. John followed after. There was not a lot of light on the inside. One old and somewhat broken lamp sat in one corner, brightening just a bit of the surrounding area. The cloudy day outside provided most of the illumination. It was still possible to distinguish the girl.

She was standing at one of the corners. Clothes wet. A headless doll sat at her feet. Her eyes immediately traveled upward. She saw them.

John did not know what to do or say. Was this it? They had found her. The game was over. They had won. But now what? Part of him wanted to rush over to the girl and provide the same comfort she had looked for at the supermarket, and yet, he knew that was not what needed to happen. She was waiting for something.

"The marble," said Sherlock, answering an unasked question as he simultaneously pulled out said item and rolled it across the floor and to the girl. Her eyes shone slightly. She shifted a bit on her spot but she didn't pick it up. The only acknowledgment it got was a quick glance as it approached her.

Sherlock slowly stood up. His hand going back to his coat pocket, pulling out the other three items he had picked up before. He sort of contemplated them as they rested on the palm of his right hand. He looked around the room briefly. A small smile began to spread on his lips.

Using his left hand, he carefully picked up the piece of metal.

"That bed there," said Sherlock, pointing towards a rusted looking cast iron bed frame with a very deflated mattress on top of it. "You took this from there." At this, Sherlock went over to the mentioned item, pushed the mattress to the side, and quickly spotted the empty bit where the brand name used to belong.

"These frames have not been made since 1890." continued as he walked back to where John was standing. "Of course that did not narrow down the neighborhood that much. We needed homes built in the Victorian Era. This, is London. But, we needed a home that remained in the same conditions as years before. No modern updates. The furniture had to be original. Now that narrowed it down a bit."

Closing his right hand over the last item, he used his thumb and forefinger to take up and display the key.

"This cleared everything up quite a bit." he placed the key up in the air as if attempting to see it clearer. "It is a copy not an original. The work at the very top is not ornate like it would have been in the 1800's. In fact, it was almost forgotten. Someone made that key in order to get to an old building. So, we were looking for an abandoned neighborhood. Not a home, but a whole set of homes. Had it been just one the work would not have been as careless. It would be a fully finished working key. No need to attract extra attention. But no. The whole thing was forgotten in time. No one would ever know." After this declaration Sherlock allowed the key to drop to the floor, picking up some water and resonating in the silence that had taken over all of the occupants of the small room. "And so we are here."

No one moved. The echo of the key still lingered in the back of everyone's mind. John continued to wait for the moment in which Sherlock would reveal the importance of the last item, but it never came. Neither did any indication that this was indeed it. Another minute or two went by. All three of them stood there. Sherlock looking at the girl, the girl staring straight back, and John alternating between the two.

"What about the other thing?" asked John when his curiosity could not be reigned in any longer.

"What other thing? There was no other thing" answered Sherlock immediately. He must definitely have been deducing or analyzing the girl.

"Yeah." continued John. "The third item. A stone. Why was that important?"

"It was not." said the detective immediately returning to the mundane conversation. "There is no object in this room whatsoever that proves this stone belonged here. Clearly, it was a distraction, and it obviously did not work."

"A distraction?" asked again John.

"Yes John," responded Sherlock in one of his usual tones for conversations that were not of utmost importance to the detective, "a distraction. Something to attempt to lead us to some other part of London. The only option as to what to do with it would be to analyze its chemical composition so that we could match it with a location. That would lead us to the incorrect mystery spot." At that second Sherlock took out his phone and began typing away. John obviously inquired about it and was told that it was a message for Lestrade so that they may be escorted back to their own flat.

But there was something that was not making complete sense to John. It was the bit where there was supposed to prove how amazingly clever she was. Sure, her whole scavenger hunt had proven to be very successful. Her sneaking, incredible, after having eluded Mrs. Hudson and himself, but most impressive, Sherlock. Her cleverness, comparable to Sherlock's. But then why do it like that. She could have just as easily begun speaking and amazed them all with her intelligence. Why make them look all around London for her? Why give them things they did not need?

There was also the bit from the supermarket. That had been Sherlock's idea to prove a point himself. So he understood a way to communicate in a way with the girl. A very drastic and traumatic way at that, but an effective one. But what did that have to do with everything else?

"No, hold on," said John waving his hand slightly in a sign of slowing down the detective a bit. "That cannot be it." He scratched his head a bit. He needed to think. Turning back towards Sherlock he extended his hand and asked to see the last item.

"I told you John" was the answer, "it is not important. You will not…"

"Just," interrupted John, "just give it to me Sherlock." At which the detective did indeed hand the disputed item to John's expecting hand and immediately turned the other direction clearly indicating that he considered John to be wasting time and energy in attempting to analyze an object he had already deemed useless. John, however, turned towards the girl once again. Tossing it very softly inside his closed fist, he looked around the room. There must be something missing.

And then it hit him.

He looked at the small stone in his hand. There was one thing. The photos in Mrs. Hudson's drawer. She took them, and they were of Mrs. Hudson's parents. Of her family. Yes, Sherlock said that the intent was to signal that she was taking them to her home, but what if it was something else. With the sneaking abilities, she obviously possessed she could have simply taken them and placed them in their path for them to see or something similar to what she had done with the shoe hunt. But no, she dropped them. Perhaps she found them and was looking at them. She saw a home, but most importantly a happy family. Something she did not have. So she dropped them. Her emotions took over. It was sentiment. Sadness, perhaps even pain, at realizing she did not have nor would never have what she saw in those photos.

"Was it your mother's?" asked John, looking up from the stone still resting in his hand. Sherlock immediately turned back around in his spot as if perplexed by what John had just uttered. Surprisingly, his question was not ignored. The girl looked towards her feet, and very sadly shook her head up and down before allowing herself to look deeply into John's eyes. At this, Sherlock got closer. His interest was peaked.

"You must have loved her" John continued, "if you kept it all along." A sniffle came from the girl. "I am sorry." At this, John took a step towards the girl, before quickly halting. The image of her running away from him just as she had done during the past couple of day surged in his mind, so instead, he offered a soft smile as he extended his hand towards her. She looked up at him, and before John had time to swallow some of the lumps in his throat, she rushed towards him. Her arms immediately latched around his torso. He could feel her small figure trembling under the damp clothes. Her hair dripped onto his hands. But he didn't care. She wanted his comfort, and he would give it for as long as she needed it, for in that moment it all made sense. All she wanted was to feel loved. Valued. Cared for. That's why she had made them run around town. Because if they searched for her, then it must mean they cared for her. If they understood who the stone belonged to, they knew part of her story, and they accepted it.

Looking up from the top of the girl's head for just a second, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock, who was standing facing them. A small smile on his lips, Sherlock nodded briefly in acknowledgment of the scene before him. Even if the detective's methods had been drastic, John could not help feeling thankful for the scene Sherlock had caused at their local shopping store, since now, he was able to give the young woman the care and comfort he needed to share with her. So smiling as well, he returned the nod. He was sure of one thing. They were going to be fine.

…

Alright, well, this is the last of it. I hope you all enjoyed the story as much as I did and I hope to read some of your comments soon.


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